


Growth

by Annenburg



Series: "Convenience" Arc [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Earth supremecist Komack, Established Relationship, Hormones, M/M, Married Couple, Mpreg, Schmoop, Sybok shows up, Xenophobia, check chapter warnings for relevant information, it's not pretty, married people discussing married people things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annenburg/pseuds/Annenburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to “Of Convenience”.  Entering a new chapter in life is difficult when you’re single.  As a pair?  Let’s just say Spock and Kirk are going to have their work cut out for them if this chapter’s going to end the way they want it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

With one week left before Jim’s Vulcan citizenship would be made permanent, Admiral Komack came aboard to, as he put it, “settle this once and for all,” and while Spock was not in any way concerned that his husband would be removed from duty, it did bring him other concerns.

“I don’t like the way he looks at us,” Jim murmured to him, leisurely running his hand over Spock’s chest.  The bed shifted under them as Jim turned slightly to palm the Vulcan through his trousers.  Despite the increasing difficulty in concentrating, Spock indicated as best he could that he echoed the sentiment, after which he immediately set about exploring the gently rounded shell of Jim’s ear with his tongue, indulging in the exotic taste and shape of his mate.

Jim stretched out under him, hands working the fastenings of Spock’s slacks.  “Don’t like the way he looks at you, either,” he said, working the zipper down.  Spock lifted his hips off Jim’s so the final article of clothing on either of them might be removed, finally sinking down onto that firm body.  “Don’t like him being here.  Don’t want him on the ship.”

“I concur,” Spock managed, feeling Jim’s fingers slowly working their way in.  He rocked gently above him, admiring the pink flush to his skin.  He did not believe it would ever cease to be so exotic to him.  “I find his presence…detrimental to…many activities aboard the Enterprise.”

No instructions needed to be given when Jim’s fingers slipped from Spock’s body, and in the gentle heat consuming them, no questions needed to be asked of either of them.  Spock carefully guided Jim into his body, leaning back and working himself down on his mate.  The small grunts the human gave were more than enough to distract him from the slight pain that had to be endured before they  _truly_  began.  Once comfortable, he set about a slow, gentle rhythm.

“Not detrimental to this activity,” Jim groaned out, eyes closing briefly before meeting again with Spock’s.  “Just…think.  He’s three doors down.  Sleeping alone. Nnngh.  Probably plotting…my downfall…”

Spock shivered.  “Indeed,” he breathed.  Amusement filtered through the bond along with Jim’s intense arousal, and he increased his pace just slightly.  He could feel all of his mate – his body, his mind, his emotion – and it taxed his endurance heavily.  “He does have an…illogical bias…against your captaincy--!”

The last half of the sentence escaped as a gasp as Jim bucked up quite suddenly and came inside him, the warm fluid coating his insides.  And although Spock had not quite orgasmed yet, the sensation of fulfillment that spread through him was, in some ways, even more pleasing than that.

Jim seemed to think otherwise, though, and he urged Spock to lift off him, flipping them so the Vulcan was on his back on the sheets.  The captain dove right in, mouth wrapping around him and moving with all the skill Spock knew him to possess, bringing him to his peak in what could not have been more than thirty seconds.  He arched into Jim’s mouth, body tensing, and then fell back to the bed, feeling distinctly boneless.

His husband laid at his side, one hand on his abdomen.  “So, was that adequate, Mr. Spock?”

“I believe so,” he replied, shifting onto his side and brushing his fingers against Jim’s.  He fought the powerful urge to slip from bed to bathe.  “Did you find it enjoyable?”

“Always,” Jim murmured, pulling him closer.  Contentment emanated powerfully through the bond.  “McCoy tomorrow?”

Spock pressed his lips against Jim’s gently.  “Yes, at 0900 hours,” he answered.  “And Komack leaves in one week, barring any incriminating evidence that we are faking our marriage to grant you citizenship.”

“Heaven forbid,” Jim whispered, a small smile on his face.  “Gotta be careful with that incriminating evidence, then.  Where do you keep it?”

The Vulcan tugged the blanket over them.  “Sleep,” he suggested, though his tone might’ve made it seem an order.  Jim obeyed, though, curling closer and closing his eyes.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

Jim was unable to accompany Spock to Medical the next morning, but that wasn’t precisely his fault.  Komack had insisted upon a tour of the features the bridge held, and as much as he protested Jim was unable to get out of it.  So Spock went on his own.

“That ends that streak,” the doctor muttered when he saw Spock, and the Vulcan wasn’t necessarily interested in discovering what ‘streak’ he had broken.  “Aren’t you due on the bridge?”

“I’ve made an appointment,” Spock informed him – as rare as appointments were for Medical.  McCoy raised an eyebrow.  “For a pregnancy test,” he clarified.

The doctor was silent for a long moment.  “Jim knows?” he asked abruptly, and when Spock nodded he stood and rifled through a drawer for the corresponding tricorder. He emerged with it in hand, glancing over him.  “I, uh.  I have to know.  Are you two _trying_  to get pregnant, or is this another ‘injected with DHEA’ incident?”

“We are endeavoring to conceive,” Spock answered.  “Jim had wished to be here, but Admiral Komack insisted on his guidance this morning.”

McCoy didn’t move.  “How long you been trying?” he inquired, tapping the tricorder against his arm.  Spock took a seat on the biobed.

“We ceased contraceptive measures only four point two weeks ago,” the Vulcan answered.  “If it happens that I am not pregnant, I will request a hormone test to determine the current point of my fertility cycle at the moment and what dates would be most appropriate to attempt conception.  I trust this is acceptable?”

The doctor still didn’t move.  “I don’t get why Jim wants kids all of a sudden,” he said softly.  “He used to talk about how he wanted to wait until he didn’t have a life anymore – or just never have kids.”

A flare of irritation escaped through the bond from Jim, and Spock found himself just slightly echoing it.  “Your repeated lectures on the dangers of space have not been ignored,” he informed him.  “Please perform the test.  I am needed on the bridge within the hour.”

Finally, McCoy moved forward.  “Guess all things are possible,” he muttered, running the tricorder over Spock twice and checking the screen, and then another two times, no doubt to double check the results.  “You’re not going to need that hormone test.  Congrats.”

It took an entire two seconds for the doctor’s ‘subtle’ message to sink in for Spock.  “We have already conceived?”

“Indications are you conceived about three weeks ago, if these readings are to be trusted,” he confirmed, holding up the tricorder for Spock to examine, the numbers lining up beautifully.  He carefully closed off his ensuing elation from the bond.  “Lucky time to stop the pills, I guess.”

“Indeed,” Spock agreed, and with a fair amount of surprise at himself, he found his palm resting against his abdomen, directly above where the implant was located.  He had known that stopping the contraceptives would not immediately return him to fertility, but it had happened so quickly that it could be mistaken for  _immediate_.  The technology truly was remarkable.  “I assume I will need to make a follow-up appointment?”

McCoy nodded.  “You, Jim, me, and the full body scanner,” he said.  “Tomorrow at lunch good for you?”

“I believe that will be convenient,” Spock concurred, standing again.  “Is there anything else I should know?”

“No explorative missions, no recognizance missions, no beaming down onto aggressive planets – need I continue?” the doctor drawled.  “We don’t know a lot about how this is going to go.  We have to assume it’s not very stable in there.  So  _be cautious_.”

Spock nodded, and with the doctor’s insistent wave, he left the exam room, reaching with the bond to find where Jim might’ve been.  Engineering, it seemed.  Of all places.  Nevertheless, the Vulcan entered the turbolift and made his way down, following the trail his mind led him on.  Not surprisingly, he heard Jim before he saw him.

“Admiral, I don’t quite see how Mr. Scott’s record is at all lacking,” his mate was saying, voice just barely betraying his great irritation.  “And I  _really_  don’t get why having a workstation designed for someone Keenser’s size is ‘discriminatory’.  He can’t reach the surface of a full-sized desk!”

Spock rounded the corner, and Jim’s eyes immediately flashed to his.  Komack followed his gaze.

“Commander Spock,” the man said, though it sounded as though he was rather trying to rid his palate of some dissatisfying taste.  “What brings you to Engineering?  I was under the impression that the First Officer’s duty was to man the bridge while the captain is unable to.  Have my many, many years in Starfleet failed me?”

Spock clasped his hands behind his back.  “I assigned Lt. Sulu to command duty until 1100 hours,” he explained.  “And I needed to inform the captain that I will be unable to participate in any planetside missions until a later date.”

Komack raised an eyebrow.  “Why might that be?”

Anticipation and careful joy streamed through the bond, and Jim looked him right in the eyes.  “Spock.  Tell me I’m on the right track here,” his husband said, voice just slightly strained.  “Just…say it, Spock.”

All of a sudden, it didn’t matter that they were in the middle of Engineering.  It wouldn’t have mattered if they were in the middle of a Klingon attack or the destruction of a station or headed into a star.  Nothing could have distracted Spock.  It didn’t even matter that the man intent on foisting Jim from the ship was listening in.  All that mattered was the connection, the words the air awaited – the news Jim could probably already guess.

“We will need to see a Vulcan healer as soon as possible,” Spock finally heard himself say.  “It would seem I am already three weeks along, and it will be necessary to determine the viability of this attempt.”

_Joy_  filtered through the bond, heavy and overpowering, making its way into every crevice of Spock’s being.  But the silence and the wonder in the room was broken with Komack spoke again.

“Three weeks along  _what_ , exactly?” the man asked.  Jim’s eyes didn’t leave Spock’s.

“I am pregnant,” the Vulcan finally said, to some great sputtering from the admiral and a victorious laugh from his mate and, a moment later, strong arms wrapping him in a loving and public embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to miscarriage in this chapter

It was perhaps only the suddenness of Spock’s announcement that kept Komack from following them to the bridge, but regardless, they made it to the bridge without a third party and without any inquiring glances.  The closest to giving one was Nyota, but her expression seemed to be more amused than anything.  Her face was blank again a moment later as she focused on the communication frequencies.

It might not have been completely rational, but when Spock saw Jim stride to his chair, chest puffed out and looking absurdly proud, waves of sheer exhilaration passing through the bond, the Vulcan wondered how people could  _possibly_  interpret his body language.  For all his cockiness, Jim was rarely this smug.

“We’re going to have a slight change of course after we drop Komack off,” the captain informed everyone.  “We’re heading to New Vulcan for the two year anniversary. Estimated arrival time?”

Chekov was immediately performing the calculations.  The young man’s abilities in this area were impressive, he had to admit.  He could solve just about anything in half the time it would’ve taken most Vulcans, and on Vulcan he would’ve just barely entered maturity.  It took him barely more than seven seconds to complete his calculations.  “We will arrive in one point two weeks, Keptin.”

That sounded correct.  Spock turned to his work, carefully sorting through his slides.  That would afford them plenty of time to see the healer.

_We’re having a baby, Spock._

Jim’s mental voice was immeasurably stunned, and he spared a moment to check over the man’s mind, finding him still pleased, if in slight disbelief.   _Indeed.  It does seem we will be having a baby._

His samples were ordered properly now.   _What’s the Vulcan healer supposed to tell us?_

 _The viability of the pregnancy will be tested, as well as the percentage of Vulcanoid DNA,_  he explained, slipping one slide into his scope and glancing into it.   _Vulcan traits are dominant, after all.  If the fetus is comprised of more than thirty-two percent Vulcan DNA, it will be considered mostly Vulcan._

_That doesn’t make sense._

_Jim, a percentage of Vulcan DNA greater than thirty-two percent indicates the fetus will have mostly Vulcanoid features._   Spock switched out the slides as Jim contemplated what he’d just told him.   _Telepathy.  Physiology.  And before you ask, yes – there is a significant chance that its ears would be more like mine than yours._

 _Awesome_ , Jim sent back to him.   _I do love those pointy ears._

For a long while, Spock concentrated on his work, indulging every so often in the contentment rolling off his mate.  While the Vulcan understood that he was pregnant, that he would eventually birth an infant, and that that infant would be  _theirs_ , part of him felt disbelief that this was even happening.  He did not necessarily feel pregnant – but then, what did it feel like to be pregnant?

This train of thought was not conducive to his work.

 _I bet your dad’s going to go nuts when we tell him_ , Jim informed through the bond.  This was accompanied by a rather outrageous image of his father wide-eyed and shocked.  He tried to express his disapproval through the bond, but it was covered up by Jim’s amusement.   _Seriously, though.  How do you think he’ll take it?_

 _I believe that will depend on how Vulcanoid the fetus is,_  Spock replied.  To his left, Chekov’s brow furrowed, and then he was recalculating something.  An almost sure sign of the time.   _Would you like to take our lunch break?_

 _Sounds great_ , the captain confirmed, standing up and glancing at the crew.  “Let’s get some lunch, Spock.”

Spock stood as well, glancing to Chekov.  “You have the Conn,” he informed him, striding to Jim’s side and making his way out with him.  There were a few engineers in the mess, as well as—Spock withheld an exasperated mental sigh.  Komack was at a table by himself, glaring at his coffee as though it had just personally insulted him.

“Hey, Admiral,” Jim greeted, that smug quality back in his voice.  “Something wrong with the coffee?”

“If there is, it inn’t the replicator,” Scott called over from three tables away.  It seemed he was indulging himself today, a decidedly extravagant sandwich on the plate in front of him.  “I finished repairs on it two weeks ago, and it dinn’t mess up any of  _my_  food.”

Spock made his way to the replicator in question, keying in an order for plomeek broth and a stir fry while Jim chattered away with his head engineer.  He almost might’ve thought the admiral would ignore them, but such did not seem to be in their fates.

“I’m not convinced,” Komack informed them bluntly as Spock turned around.  The man’s disapproval showed on every part of his body, from his twisted face to the white-knuckled grip he had on his steaming mug.  Scott sent him a perplexed look, and Spock sat at a measured distance between the pair, Jim joining him momentarily with what appeared to be chamomile tea, setting it before Spock.  His mate frowned, worry slipping through the bond.  “One pregnancy isn’t proof that your marriage isn’t a sham.  It’s just proof that your Mr. Spock slept with  _someone_.”

Scott, of all people, was the one to look outraged.  “Now that’s crossin’ a line, Admiral!” the engineer seemingly  _growled_.  Komack raised an eyebrow.  “It’s one thing to come onto this ship tryin’ to prove something one way or the other, but this?  Remindin’ them they lost a  _baby_?  You’re just a sick man, Admiral Komack, and I don’t care what ‘discipline’ that’s gettin’ me, ‘cause you  _are_  disgusting.”

If he was anybody else, Spock might’ve appreciated the gesture, the act of coming to their defense – but he couldn’t, not with the logical majority of his mind calculating all the consequences that outburst might have.  Even Jim mentally winced when Komack sent a bewildered look at them.

“You miscarried?  When?” their superior questioned, and Jim cleared his throat.

“It was—a couple months ago,” his husband answered.  “It’s not relevant.”

Spock sipped his broth, brushing Jim’s mind with his, letting discomfort bloom into acceptance once more.  Komack stroked his chin.

“And you decided it’d be a good idea to get pregnant again?” he asked skeptically.  Jim’s mind went carefully blank, a tinge of anger shaking the bond for only a split second.  “And so soon, no less.  Seems a bit of a strange decision, if you ask me.”

Scott shot them quizzical look after quizzical look, and finally, sounding slightly strangled, asked, “So, then, Mr. Spock’s pregnant again, is he?”

Jim seemed content to ignore Scott.  “Admiral, we were hoping to keep that under wraps until we got to New Vulcan,” he growled.  “We don’t know how stable the pregnancy is.  How viable.  Hell, we don’t know much of anything yet, and until we  _know_  everything’s working out like we want it to, we’re not broadcasting the news. And frankly, what’s so strange about us wanting kids?”

“It’s strange when you’re  _not really married_ ,” Komack insisted.  Spock felt an intense rage in the bond – and realized part of it came from him.  Thankfully, Scott spoke before Jim could explode.

“Oh, for—come on, then, you’re just against this because ye don’t  _like_  it,” Scott dismissed, voice as condescending as anything Spock had ever heard.  He’d certainly never seen anyone show as much disdain with one look as the engineer currently was.  “They’re married, all right.  I was at  _both_  their weddings, thank ye very much, and if they’re ever plannin’ on having a third, I’m RSVPing  _now_.  You’re just tryin’ to justify splitting ‘em up ‘cause the only thing you like less’n the captain is interspecies marriage, right?”

Komack’s lips thinned.  “That is not an appropriate way of addressing your superior officer,” he murmured.  Spock took another long sip of his broth, attempting to quell Jim’s anger through the bond.  “Delta Vega still needs an officer to maintain the premises.  Are you volunteering?”

“That’s enough,” Jim outright growled, and for a moment, Spock wondered if he was going to have to subdue his own mate before he could launch a physical attack on their superior officer.  Thankfully, though, Jim simply sat beside Spock.  “We’re married.  We’re bonded.  We’re  _having a baby_.  There’s no questioning our motives here. If you want to investigate us, fine.  Do it.  But if you start threatening my crew, I am going to report you for abuse of power – and believe me, I have enough evidence to do it.  Am I clear?”

The admiral frowned, and Spock took another careful sip of his broth, monitoring his mate’s emotions through the bond.  “I would like to observe the bridge,” Komack informed them, Jim’s eyebrows twitching.  “I trust this will be acceptable for you, Captain?”

“Of course,” his mate ground out, finally moving to the replicator.  “We’re due back in ten minutes.  You don’t mind if I eat, do you?”

Komack waved permission, and as Jim walked to the replicator, a sigh filtered through the bond.

 _Fucking asshole,_  Jim transmitted.   _But you know, he really can’t ruin our day.  You know?_

 _I am certain that he is ordinarily more than capable,_  Spock corrected, moving on to his stir fry.   _However, I would certainly agree that the discovery of successful conception greatly outweighs what bigotry and attempts at separation he generally aims towards us._

Jim turned back with a plate of pasta and a carefully guarded smirk on his face.   _You could just call it ‘getting pregnant’ rather than ‘conception’, you know._   A great deal of amusement filtered through with that statement.   _Since you’re, uh.  Well, the technical term seems to be ‘pregnant’.  And you know, I’m pretty happy you’re pregnant, too._

 _I will admit that that is something of a relief, given I have no intention of being a single parent_ , Spock transmitted back.  Komack stood, stalking past and brushing (no doubt unintentionally) against his shoulder.  The slight transfer of thought, even through the fabric, made him go irrationally, unnaturally cold in his seat, the conversation with his husband forgotten.   _Jim.  Komack is…unstable.  Unbalanced.  Unsafe.  He is dangerous._

Jim’s brow furrowed, even as he tried valiantly not to look at the man in question.   _You’re sure?  I mean, I’ve joked about it plenty, but…_

 _Do not permit him on the bridge_ , Spock warned, now conscious of Komack’s every move.   _His mentality is similar to that of most twentieth century Terran white supremacists.  He knows he can do nothing about the different species – ‘races’, if you will – around him, much as he believes humans to be superior.  But he believes that if he can prevent ‘interbreeding’, it will make the galaxy a better place – and make him a hero.  Our union and my very existence are threats to his ideals._

Jim met his eyes.   _And the baby._

_Yes.  And the baby._

_Will he…is he capable of violence?_

_Very_ , Spock confirmed, observing the man as he returned to his seat.   _He seems to be planning something.  He is carrying both a phaser and a knife.  And he was quite pleased to have attained permission to enter the bridge.  I believe he intends to_  end  _things today._

Jim’s mind leaked anticipation – fear.  But it was hidden under careful bravado.   _Okay._

“Oh, I forgot – we’re having safety drills today, Admiral,” his mate ‘remembered’.  “We won’t be done until Gamma shift.  I’m afraid that having you on the bridge during our drills would be…problematic.  Would you be okay with waiting until we’re done to come on the bridge?”

Komack raised an eyebrow.  “My presence will be absolutely unnoticeable.”

 _Doubtful_ , Spock informed Jim.   _Quote regulations.  Make him surrender his weapons before stepping onto the bridge.  As he is technically not bridge_ crew _, he is not permitted to have them on his person if he insists on observing._

“All right, then,” Jim conceded, nervousness floating to Spock’s mind from Jim’s, enhancing and subduing his own.  “In that case, could you please surrender all weapons to Mr. Scott?  As I’m sure you know, only active shift crew is permitted to carry weaponry onto the bridge.  Sorry, but that rule counts even for Admirals.”

Komack frowned, but turned to Scott nonetheless, handing both his weapons over.  “I expect them to be returned in  _pristine_ condition,” he commanded.  “Am I clear?”

 _He surrendered those too easily,_  Jim speculated.   _Stay alert, Spock._

 _Naturally_.

Clearing his plate of the last of his stir fry, the Vulcan stood, placing the tray back.  Jim followed almost immediately, and when they made it to the turbolift, Komack followed.  With a heavy amount of apprehension floating in the bond from both parties, Jim entered in the destination – bridge.

 _Here’s hoping for wrong conclusions_ , the human offered weakly.  Spock clasped his hands behind his back.

_Indeed._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence in this chapter, but no gore

They had barely made it onto the bridge before Sulu, at least, was raising an eyebrow at them.  Jim sent him a pointed look, though somehow his nervousness increased, flowing through the bond and wearing at Spock’s carefully constructed calm.  Nyota sent him an inquisitive look of her own, though he could not acknowledge it immediately.  Instead, he paid no more mind to his superior and walked to his station, breathing deeply.

The nervousness would not abate.

 _Instinct, Spock_ , Jim projected.   _It’s logical to trust your instincts.  Mine are saying this is bad news_.

Out loud, he merely glanced over the bridge and cleared his throat.  “Admiral Komack wishes to observe the bridge for Alpha shift.  Do your best to perform your duties as usual,” he ordered, striding to his chair.  “We will engage in tactical drills A14 through B12 today, in random order.  Mr. Spock, if you will please begin the simulation?”

Spock nodded, letting his hands take over for his mind.  The programming was simple to initiate, and not a second after he activated the scrambler, the view screen changed to an image of a Romulan warbird.

“Ouch,” the Ensign at the helm winced.  “We’re starting with this one?”

“Ensign,” Jim snapped.  “We are in a drill.  Please take this seriously.”

Spock knew Jim’s temper was unraveling alongside his nerves, and hard as he tried, there was no way he was capable of soothing him yet.  His mate’s protective nature aside, the nature of the simulation might be taxing him as well.  A quick touch of Jim’s mind confirmed it.

 _Why’d you start with this one, Spock?_  Jim asked, eyes fixed on the warbird.   _There are 22 to pick from.  Why this?_

 _The computer program chose it_ , Spock replied, feeling a cold, almost viscous trepidation seep down his spine.  Jim no doubt sensed it as well, turning his head to look in his direction and barking an order to open hailing frequencies.  Despite his mate’s obvious concern and trust in his body’s reaction to mental and hormonal stimulus, Spock forced himself to remain calm.

“They are not responding,” Nyota called over blandly, flipping switches on her board.  “I’ve tried all channels.  No response.”

Jim turned to Sulu.  “Are they charging weapons, Lieutenant?” he asked.  The man shook his head.

“Negative.  However, their shields are at maximum power,” the helmsman answered quickly, scanning through the readings his consol displayed.  “Scans report engines are idling.  They may be preparing to enter warp.”

“Mr. Spock?” Jim called over.  Spock did not turn from his station.

“Likelihood of offensive action is approximately seventy percent,” he informed him, calculating it as he spoke.  “Ship design is consistent with early warp-six capable vessels.  Most likely, these ships are sentries placed to guard a recognizance brigade.  I am advising extreme caution.  It would also be advisable to power shields to at least forty percent.”

“Make it sixty,” his husband ordered, waving a hand at Sulu.  “Any weapon activity?”

“Their weapons appear to be online,” the man confirmed, hands steady.  “Do you want me to engage targeting?”

There was the tiniest of pauses, and then Jim was glancing to the view screen again.  “Mr. Spock, would that action be likely to provoke a violent response?”

He could have given Jim the percentages, the statistics, the calculations – but that was not what he wanted.  Spock instead simply turned away from his station and met Lieutenant Sulu’s eyes.  “It certainly would,” he confirmed.  “Refrain from any potentially aggressive acts.”

There was a tense silence on the bridge for a few long seconds, tense enough that Spock forgot for a moment the reason for his previous nervousness.  But it did not last long.  The warbird warped out of the view screen and the simulation ended.

“Performance?” Jim asked.  Spock checked his PADD.

“Adequate,” he informed him.  “Ninety-eight percent performance rate.  Slow uptake on hails, though that seems more a fault of the system design than Lieutenant Uhura.  Actions will be taken to repair this at next space dock.”

“That simulation is simple,” Komack scoffed, and Spock found his gaze drawn to the man next to the lift.  He was seated on the ground next to the door, cross-legged and hands holding his ankles.  It hardly seemed befitting of someone in his position, though Spock would never seek to mention it or attempt to correct him.  He was his superior, after all.  “A one hundred percent performance rate is possible.  Don’t blame the ship for your own shortcomings, half-breed.”

Nyota let out an outraged little noise, and Spock felt Jim’s anger flare.  “What did you just call him?” Nyota demanded.  Komack stood, hands going behind his back.

It was only for a moment, but Spock knew he saw that the man was holding something.  Metallic.  Small.   _He has something_ , he informed Jim.  A slight panic surged through his mate.

“I cannot allow you to use that language with one of my most valued crew members,” Jim informed their superior hastily, moving to stand between him and the rest of the bridge crew.  “You are free to make any observations you would like, so long as they are relevant to the situation.  Please refrain from insults, Sir.”

Komack raised an eyebrow in Jim’s direction.  “Fine, then,” he grumbled, glancing between Spock and his husband.  “Did you know interspecies hybrids bred in nature are almost exclusively sterile?”

That feeling in Spock’s spine had returned, amplified by Jim’s not so subtle anxiety.  He stood strong, not responding.

“Yes, I know that,” Jim answered evenly.  “This is not relevant.”

“I outrank you,” Komack snapped.  “What I say is relevant is relevant.  Understand?”

Jim closed a little more of the distance between himself and Komack.   _Spock, you get in your chair.  If he has a weapon, I don’t want you in range.  Get in your chair and lean onto your consol._

Out loud, the captain only let out a nervous chuckle.  “Not really.”

Komack sighed.  “I’m saying hybrids need to be sterilized.  Or neutralized,” he growled out.  Spock took a step back towards his chair trying not to provoke the man. But a second later, it was evident the man needed no provocation.  “Let me show you.”

And before Spock could fully register the man’s movements, there was an old-style projectile weapon aimed directly at him.  With great clarity and unnatural slowness, he watched the trigger depress, and with a noise almost too loud for his sensitive ears, a bullet hurdled toward him.

But Komack aimed for his chest, not for his stomach where his heart and implant resided.  It hit square in the middle.  He felt the sear, the burn, the cracking of his sternum, the panic of his mate.  The panic and the fear.  He was vaguely aware of the flurry of action, triggers pulled and Jim rushing to his side.  But mostly, he felt the blood pooling, the throbbing through his whole body.

The wound would not threaten his life.

Not  _his_.

Jim was picking him up then, and it seemed so easy for him.  Like Spock weighed nothing.  He carried him quickly to the lift, barking orders back to the crew.  Spock tried to turn his neck back to look at the state of the bridge, but found his neck stiff, heavy.  He could not move.  Jim’s concern, panic, disbelief, and determination poured through the bond.

 _He hid the weapon in his boot?_   Spock asked, feeling his body beginning to go into shock, despite his training.  He forced himself into calm.  Jim was in no similar state.

_Damn right.  Bastard must’ve had it in there for hours.  Don’t try to talk._

_I am not actually—_

_Doesn’t matter.  Do that healing trance thing you Vulcans do.  Get…better.  Stronger.  I’m not letting Komack get what he wants out of this._

The lift stopped, and the familiar smell of sickbay – the scent of disinfectant and sterility – met his nose.  Perhaps it was merely his body’s reaction to the injury, but somehow the lights seemed so much brighter than usual.  He closed his eyes.

“Hey, hey – stay with me,” he heard Jim say as the unmistakeable sound of a tricorder buzzed over him.  This was followed by a string of curses (Doctor McCoy, no doubt), interrupted by his husband’s gentle, yet frantic voice.  “Come on, Spock.  You have to keep your eyes open.  Don’t you dare give up on me here.”

Spock projected back what calm he could, keeping his eyes shut.  “I am quite conscious,” he assured him, “but the lights are too bright to look at.”

Jim’s fingers met his, and he reciprocated as best he could.  It was just the tiniest moment, and seconds later, it was lost.

“I need to perform surgery  _now_ , Jim,” Spock heard the doctor say, and he felt Jim’s agreement through the bond.  There was the light touch of Jim’s lips on his forehead before his loud footsteps retreated hastily.  He heard the filling of a hypospray.

Then, nothing.  The world ceased to exist.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

He awoke to dimmed lights and a cool hand in his, and there could be no question where he was or who was holding onto him so strongly.  He cast his eyes about the room, noting a hypo on the counter next to the biobed and his mate, clothes changed from that ill-fated shift, asleep at his side.  An old-fashioned clock on the wall read six-thirteen, though he was not certain whether that was morning or evening.

Doctor McCoy stepped inside quietly.  It was evident that he knew Jim would be here.  Like Spock, he seemed to take it for granted that Jim would always be there when he woke.  He stepped closer, running a tricorder over his body quickly.

“Damn lucky Komack never took a xenobiology class,” he muttered lowly.  “For once, it’s a good thing you’re a hobgoblin.”

“Indeed,” Spock murmured, feeling a rush of pain through his body with the exhalation.  There was a moment of silence as the doctor administered the hypospray.  “Am I still…?”

“Pregnant?  Yeah,” the man said gruffly, but it was the confirmation he needed regardless of tone.  “And you’re a whole three days more pregnant now than your last visit.  Almost four weeks down now.”

Like he knew what they were saying (although Spock recognized his sleep as being deep enough that such a thing was impossible), Jim was suddenly reaching up, laying his free hand awkwardly on Spock’s shoulder.  McCoy let out a sound close to a chuckle.

“He does that every time someone talks in this room,” he explained.  “Especially when he’s asleep.  Damn protective bastard.”

Spock used his own free hand to cover his mate’s, gently rubbing his fingers and projecting calm.  Jim’s shoulders sank lower, his breathing deepening.  He focused on this as the doctor did his work, checking his readings once, twice, and again.

“Obviously, we’ve postponed your time in the scanner,” he informed the Vulcan.  “But as soon as we can, we need to.  We have no way of knowing how your body is going to react to all this.  There is absolutely no precedent whatsoever.  And some of the readings I’m getting worry me.”

He watched Jim’s sleeping face for a few moments longer.  “And the likelihood of miscarriage is increased if there is history of it,” he murmured.  If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought a look of pity crossed over the doctor’s face.  Spock kept his face as neutral as he could, the exhaustion in his body pressing against his ability to do so.  “We considered this when we initiated this attempt.  We are prepared.”

McCoy nodded.  “You need sleep.”

“It would seem so,” Spock conceded.  “I will attempt another few hours.  Please insist Jim maintain our present course – and that he eats a decent meal before his next shift.”

“How motherly,” the doctor drawled, flicking the lights off.  “Sleep well.”

That was one order Spock had no difficulty following.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

When he awoke again, Spock found Jim seated beside him, awake this time and watching him, jaw resting on his fist.  His husband gave him the briefest of smiles, offering two fingers.  Spock accepted silently, rearranging his shoulders and feeling the slight burn of pain spread through him.  He met Jim’s eyes.

“You have not changed clothing since the last time I woke,” he observed.  “Have I slept long?”

“Eleven hours,” Jim told him, still glancing over him.  “Komack’s in the brig.  The  _Edison_  is going to pick him up later.  He’s being court-martialed.  He’s lucky phasers are automatically defaulted to stun upon entry to the bridge.  Not that I’d have minded if he’d died.”

Spock closed his eyes.  “You would have minded severely,” he murmured.  “Have you informed New Vulcan of our projected arrival?”

His mate was good enough to simply accept that Spock was correct on the first account.  A trickle of guilt slipped through the bond.  “I told the ambassador and your dad,” he confirmed.  A beat of silence later, he cleared his throat.  “On the plus side, Bones says we can get you into the scanner as soon as the day after tomorrow. He wants it done as soon as possible.”

Spock relaxed into the biobed.  “That seems logical,” he agreed.  “I would like to enter a healing trance.”

Jim nodded, standing up.  “Good plan,” he said softly, leaning to press a gently kiss to Spock’s mouth.  He accepted it, sliding their hands into an embrace briefly. “Now, I need to go see a man about a court martial anyway.  Meditate.  Do your healing thing.  I’ll be back before you come out of it.”

Spock felt his eyes closing of their own accord.  “I do not doubt it,” he murmured, feeling Jim’s hands leave his.  “I can hardly recall an occasion when you were not present when I awoke in the past year.”

 _Don’t forget it_ , Jim projected towards him.   _Heal up._

Spock didn’t even bother replying.  He merely projected back neutrality as best he could, and then, with the feel of Jim’s palm still lingering on his, he slipped into the trance, letting the sounds and smells of the world fade away.


	4. Chapter 4

The injury would not scar, the doctor told Spock.  The bone would take some time to heal, but it wouldn’t restrict his movements very long.  His chest was immobilized, bandaged heavily – and he had to remind himself that it was for the best.  Besides which, Jim seemed more relaxed with the knowledge that Spock would not be impeded in his recovery.

The barely audible whir of the machinery around him reverberated through his body, and despite how brief the scan itself was, it felt altogether too long before he was out of the scanner.

Jim immediately gripped his hand the moment he emerged, helping him into a sitting position.  Once he was upright, Jim’s fingers pressed firmly against his, his slow pulse beating through his skin.  They fixed their eyes on the screen as McCoy brought up the image from the scan.  For a moment, the man just looked, brows furrowing with every passing second.  Finally, after zooming in twice and changing his angle several times, he sighed.

“That explains a lot,” he muttered.  Jim froze.

“What?  Is—is there something wrong with the baby?” he asked, hand wrapping around Spock’s entirely.  McCoy shook his head.

“Nothin’.  ‘Cept it’s two.”

It took Spock a few seconds to begin interpreting the man’s statement, his shoulders suddenly feeling loose and weak.  “That is highly unlikely,” he heard himself say. “Vulcans do  _not_  birth multiples.  It is an event occurring only once in every 400,000 births.  Aside from which, my implant releases only one ovum per fertility cycle.  The likelihood that I would conceive twins—”

“—is made higher by your human DNA,” McCoy drawled.  “Looks like you must’ve released two eggs this cycle; readings indicate the twins are fraternal.”

“Highly improbable.”

“But still way more likely for you than any other Vulcan, right?  Besides, aren’t you hobgoblins all about repopulation?  This is a two-for-one deal here.  Be happy,” the doctor told him.  Then, turning to Jim, he smirked.  “You must be thrilled.  More Kirks to dilute the gene pool.”

Spock turned to his bondmate, trying to sense anything through the bond – but all he could find was a buzzing, a hum of congealed thoughts, of integrated emotions so complex he was certain not even the strongest computers could have separated them, and more than anything, an all-encompassing and overwhelming sense of awe. “Jim?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, his grip going lax as Spock felt his mind struggle to calm itself, to reflect his intellect over his wonder.  “I mean—Bones, you’re serious?  We’re seriously having two?”

“You are,” the man agreed.  “Give me a sec and I’ll pull up their genetic profiles.  You  _do_  want to know, right?”

“Indeed,” Spock confirmed.  “Sex, genetic makeup, developmental stage, any and all genetic abnormalities, and approximate date of viable delivery.”

McCoy snorted.  “In other words, you wanna know everything I can tell you,” he said, reaching for his PADD.  “Why wouldn’t you just  _say_  you wanted to know everything?”

Spock raised an eyebrow.  “I am disinterested in the physical characteristics of the embryos unless they somehow relate to a disability or possible handicap.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, tapping his screen.  He zoomed into the image once more, focusing on a tiny conglomeration of cells adhered to the lining of his prosthetic. “Baby one: female.”

Jim’s hand tightened on Spock’s again.  “A girl?”

“That’s what female means, Jim,” McCoy deadpanned.  Spock felt Jim’s tiny surge of annoyance, but it was hidden beneath the steadily growing wonder seeping through the bond.  “Anyway.  Female.  Approximately four weeks gestation.  Genetic makeup seems to be forty-two percent Vulcan, fifty-eight percent human.  No abnormalities I can see so far, though those things can develop later.  Assuming your length of gestation is more similar to a Vulcan’s, she’ll be born in April, probably around the sixteenth.  So will her brother.”

Spock contemplated the information quietly, sinking into Jim’s awe.  “And this would be the second fetus, I presume.”

“What else would he be?” the man muttered, tapping his PADD a few times and zooming closer to another cluster of cells, tiny and barely shaped like anything.  “This’d be him: baby two.  Male.  Also no genetic problems I can see.  Thirty-nine percent Vulcan, Sixty-one percent human.  Four weeks gestation.  Anything else you wanna know?”

“Nothing in your ability to tell,” Spock told him, turning again to look at Jim.  “Is there anything you would like to know, Jim?”

“Uh,” Jim articulated, eyes still fixed on the image.  “I mean.  So it’s—I mean, there’s nothing wrong, right?  At all?”

McCoy rubbed his chin.  “The only thing I’m worried about is what happens when they reach eighteen weeks.  Either they’re gonna be strong enough to handle being crammed in there together against Spock’s muscles or they’re not.  If not, we’re going to have to find a way to loosen him up,” he said, and before Spock could protest, the man was looking directly at him.  “Don’t tell me anything about how Vulcan fetuses develop, Spock.  These are more human.”

“They are more Vulcan,” he argued gently.  “I am confident there will be no complications.”

The doctor flushed slightly.  “We don’t know what  _aspects_  of their physiology will be Vulcan!” he insisted.  “For all we know, their musculature or skeletal structure could be human, in which case your  _Vulcanoid muscles_  could  _crush_  them!  That’s a  _definite_  complication.”

It was, Spock had to admit, a valid concern.  Feeling Jim’s concern flash through the bond, he simply looked the doctor in the eyes.  “I have utmost faith that you are capable of ensuring a successful delivery, Doctor,” he stated simply.  “I would expect no less from the best physician in Starfleet.”

McCoy’s shoulders loosened noticeably.  “Flattery?  Thought Vulcans didn’t believe in that,” he said, but he sounded more certain of himself.  “I can only do as much as medicine lets me, though.  You’re gonna have to deal with that.”

“Acceptable,” he murmured.  “Correct, Jim?”

Jim nodded mutely.  McCoy took the hint, handing Spock the PADD and making his way out of the bay.  As he left, Spock distinctly heard a mutter of, “Damn idiots should’ve told me they were planning to reproduce.  Jesus Christ.”

Spock ignored the tiny outburst, carefully positioning himself to look at his mate.  “Jim,” he implored gently, turning his wrist to press his palm against the man’s.  Jim snapped into awareness, eyes immediately fixing on Spock’s.  “Jim.  I have every confidence this will proceed well.  Do not allow Dr. McCoy to worry you unnecessarily.”

His husband shook his head.  “I’m gonna worry whether it’s necessary or not, Spock,” he said, using his free hand to tip the PADD towards him.  “What if they’re not strong enough to beat the pressure?  What if a complication develops?  I mean, anything could happen.”

“ _Anything_  won’t,” Spock informed him, attempting to project calm back to him.  “One reason we are seeing a Vulcan healer is to ensure this.”

Jim was quiet for a moment.  “It’s just--” he started, the words stilted.  After a deep breath, he cleared his throat and looked to Spock again.  “It’s just…we already lost one baby, Spock.  What are we gonna do if this doesn’t work out either?”

Spock brought a hand to Jim’s face, aligning his fingers on the meld points.  “With your permission?”

“Always,” his mate deadpanned, closing his eyes.  Spock closed his own, initiating the meld.

Despite the bond they shared, the depth of transfer seemed infinitely greater in a real meld.  There were no shields, no boundaries – there was no need.  They were completely one, all intricate knowledge and merged emotion and knowledge of pasts, presents, hopes, and fears.  And yet they were also separate – Jim’s thoughts and emotions tinted with an inherently human aura, seeping through the confines of Spock’s logical mind and filling the cracks; a welcome, yet infinitely alienating presence the likes of which the Vulcan doubted could be rivaled by even the greatest of his people.

Jim’s worries and grief were at the top, encompassing much of his reason.  Spock dug through this as best he could, pushing aside thoughts of miscarriage and deformity, the memories of shock and loss, and the overwhelming burden pressing upon him already.

And of course, it was there.

It was covered in doubt, but still completely intact.  Spock brought it to the surface of their mind once more, reveling in Jim’s immediate awe.  It was something they shared, in some ways more intimate than their bond.

 _Family_.

The feelings suffused in that single thought wrapped around them tightly, pressing every bit of Spock’s consciousness against Jim’s.  Images of growth and controlled chaos and even nights without sleep brought on by the wailing of a newborn flitted across their minds, along with the tiniest bit of wonder.

 _I never had one_ , Jim projected.   _Neither of us really did._

Spock pulled out of the meld slowly, opening his eyes to find Jim’s staring at him.  For a moment, there was silence.

“I’m interruptin’ somethin’, aren’t I?” a familiar voice murmured.  Spock whipped his head to the side, finding the chief engineer standing awkwardly in the door.  Jim shook his head.

“Come on in, Scotty,” he invited, sliding his hands into his lap.  “Now’s as good a time as any to fret like a mother hen.”

Spock made a mental note to inquire as to the origins of that idiom later.  Scott merely followed directions, giving them a nervous smile.

“I thought it’d be a good plan to, you know, come by when no one else was around,” he explained, coming to a stop in front of them and scratching above his right ear. “Lieutenant Uhura and Chekov kept coming down in shifts; it’s the first chance I’ve had to ask--”

“Yeah,” Jim interrupted.  “He’s still pregnant.”

Scott paused for a moment, then nodded, a relieved grin spreading across his face.  “Good,” he said softly.  “I been more worried’n I knew I could be since I heard what happened.  That’s good news.”

And it almost seemed like those words were a trigger for Jim.  All traces of worry vanished from his bondmate, replaced with an immediate sense of astonishment and wonder and hope.  “It is good news,” he said firmly, a grin on his face.  “Damn right.  It’s the fucking  _best_  news there could be.  But for now, it’s good news in private. Right?”

“Of course,” the Scot beamed.  Spock quirked an eyebrow.  “Lieutenant Hunt’s making sure of that.”

Jim’s mind went blank, and Spock blinked, processing the statement.  “Clarify?”

Scott shrugged.  “Komack’s been hootin’ and hollerin’ up a storm down there in the brig,” he answered.  “He’s loony, that one.  Might be the only thing keepin’ people from askin’ why he keeps sayin’ you an’ your ‘spawn’ need to be ‘neutralized’.  Lieutenant Hunt’s arranged security details so that the same folks go down there every time.  Even if people did believe ‘im, there are only seven with access to the source.  Secret’s safer’n Admiral Archer’s underwear drawer.”

There was utter silence for a split second, and then Jim sighed.  “I don’t doubt it,” he admitted.  “Hunt’s a damn scary woman.  She’s probably got everyone down there sworn to silence.”

“Acceptable,” Spock agreed.  “Though I imagine the security team on The Edison will have far more difficulty determining what is fact and what is paranoia.”

“Which is  _ace_ ,” Jim cut in.  “I’ll see if Admiral Pike can make the proceedings private so no one has to hear testimony about Enterprise’s best kept secret.”

Spock nodded wordlessly.  The engineer stood awkwardly for a moment.  “I, uh,” he stuttered.  “I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.  I’ll be going now.”

“Most wise,” Spock agreed.  Scott inclined his shoulders slightly at both of them, an awkward sort of goodbye, before heading out with a tiny wave.  Spock turned his attention back to his husband.  “You are content?”

“Damn straight,” he murmured.  “And you’re coming back home tonight.  That makes me  _fabulous_.”

Spock extended two fingers.  “Indeed,” he replied softly.  “Indeed.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nyota and Spock have friendly chat in this chapter.

Five days after Spock was released from sick bay, Enterprise had entered New Vulcan’s orbit. Jim was presently in conference with two elders via private vidscreen, and Spock was paying careful mind to the feedback the bond provided him. Nothing particularly unusual came of it, and so Spock continued his work.

Perhaps due to the close proximity of the ship to the colony, Nyota’s eyes flickered to him more often than usual, lingering at times and shifting away whenever he moved to return her gaze. The occurrence repeated itself six times throughout the last two hours of his shift. When shift itself ended, he made his way to the mess hall, aware that she was behind him.

“Is there something about which you wish to speak?” he asked as she followed him through the entrance to the mess. Her steps faltered, but only for a moment. She walked past him, taking a seat at an empty table and gesturing for him to join her. He obeyed, lowering himself with some care. His healing sternum protested.

She met his eyes. “What provoked Komack?” she asked. For a moment, Spock wondered if she might already know, but an instant later, that thought left him. She would not ask if she already knew. She was not that kind of person.

“I believe he was already quite unstable long before he came aboard Enterprise,” Spock offered. Slight indecision entered into his thoughts, but he pushed it away. He had always been honest with her, and he was not going to change this now. He looked into her eyes. “Before he requested to observe the bridge, he came into knowledge of my miscarriage. His words on the bridge suggest to me that my…fertility, I suppose, was the primary motivation for his attack.”

Nyota was quiet for a moment. “I thought it might’ve been something like that,” she admitted. “He always has been prejudiced against interspecies marriage, let alone offspring.”

“So I have heard,” Spock nodded. There was another brief interlude of silence. “Your purpose in following me, however, was not simply to obtain this information.”

It was not a baseless accusation. Her shoulders barely tensed, but he saw it. It was as telling as if she’d shouted. She straightened her spine, leveling her eyes with his. “This has the potential to be a long conversation,” she informed him. “If you’re hungry, you might want to get something to eat while we talk.”

He nodded, rising from the table. He did indeed wish to consume something, but it was rather…specific. It was uncertain whether the replicator would be capable of providing it. Nevertheless, he keyed in his code and, with as little hesitation as possible, gave his order. “Carnation petals. Loose.”

There was hardly a pause before the replicator provided a bowl filled to brimming with petals. He retrieved it, carrying it back to the table with a fork. Nyota stared at his choice.

“Flowers?” she asked. He inclined his head in the affirmative.

“To Vulcans, the petals of Terran flowers are a delicacy,” he informed her. “I was curious as to whether our replicators could reproduce them. If these prove satisfactory, I believe they will be appropriate for any diplomatic or memorial dinners held while we are here.”

In reality, he simply could not have eaten anything else at the moment. He echoed this thought to Jim through the bond, only to have amusement projected back at him. He would determine the possible reasons for his reaction later.

Nyota raised an eyebrow, but she did not question further. Instead, she tilted her head. “You have a psychic connection with the captain,” she said simply. He nodded. “I don’t want him to hear this conversation. Can you block it?”

Spock speared a petal, lifting it to the level of his mouth. “He hears nothing that I do not permit him to.”

She relaxed visibly. “Good,” she sighed. “It’s a bit personal, though. I hope it doesn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps any discomfort can be circumvented by being direct,” he suggested. “What do you wish to discuss?”

He pulled the petal into his mouth, savoring it for a moment before biting into it. Its unique flavor burst across his tongue, bitter and indulgent. It was apparent that the process of replication had not adulterated the flora in any way, the petals tasting every way the same as those found in abundance on Terra. He refocused on Nyota, whose gaze rested on his forehead rather than on his eyes.

“I broke up with Leonard,” she said gently, “and I have no idea why.”

He paused for a moment, swallowing the petal as he did so. “I am perhaps not the best person with whom you should have this conversation,” he suggested evenly. Her eyes locked onto his.

“I ended our relationship feeling the same way,” she told him firmly. “I didn’t know why I was ending things. It just seemed like it had to happen. All of my relationships have been this way, and I don’t know why.”

He chewed another petal thoughtfully. True, she had been quite abrupt in ending their liaison, and for some time he had pondered the reasoning behind it. “Do you believe it to be a problem of compatibility?” he asked. She reached into his bowl and plucked out a petal, sniffing it.

“I don’t see why it would be,” she shrugged. “I’m an academic. I need other academics. I’ve always been attracted to cool logic and empiricism.”

Spock watched her nibble the edge of the petal, a disapproving look forming on her face. “Then it would not be incorrect to say the commonalities in your failed relationships are empiricists and, of course, yourself,” he observed. She bristled for a moment, but after considering it, she nodded. “Only one of these can be changed, Nyota. Perhaps what you perceive to be compatibility is no more than superficial attraction.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your reasoning?”

He finished the bowl before answering. “I am speaking from experience,” he admitted. She blinked. “I pursued relationships with two other individuals similar to you before we began our liaison, Nyota,” he told her. How surreal it was to be discussing it when bonded. “Jim, however, is quite unlike any of you, and our compatibility continues to be a source of intrigue for both of us. I would not have thought us compatible.”

Nyota was silent for a long moment. “If it isn’t working, you should change things up – right?”

“Precisely my point.”

She stood and walked to the replicator, and when she returned she was holding a cup of coffee. She did not sit back down. “I’ll figure something out,” she said. And then, quite abruptly, “I hear Komack’s court martial is set for one standard month from tomorrow. Do we testify in person or by vidscreen?”

“We will be transmitting our testimonies through vidscreen,” he told her. She nodded, sipping the coffee.

“Okay. I’m going to engineering, then,” she informed him. He nodded. “Let me know when everything is figured out about New Vulcan.”

He waved her off, replacing his bowl in the proper receptacle. Appropriately, Jim’s voice came through the bond as he exited the mess.

Get to our quarters, Spock. I’ve got plans.

Spock spared a glance at a monitor nearby, noting there were approximately four hours before they were needed anywhere.

There would certainly be time for Jim’s ‘plans’.

He made his way to their quarters and, with no preamble, entered his code and stepped inside. The door hardly closed before Jim had him pinned to it, eyes filled with heat. There was a telling hardness against his thigh, and the look on his face betrayed everything.

“Why hello, Mr. Spock,” he murmured, hands traveling over Spock’s chest. His fingers paused to pinch his nipples through his shirt, and Spock permitted himself to shudder. Lust rolled off his husband in thick waves, wrapping around him and dulling his reasoning. Their couplings had never been filled with such unbridled desire, and he found his body responding to the mental stimulus in excess.

Spock began working his shirt off, but Jim stopped him, leaning down to latch his mouth around a nipple through the cloth. His hands abandoned their quest, instead traveling down to mold Jim’s buttocks. He reveled in the firmness of the muscle there, the strength it suggested, and groaned.

Jim pulled back quickly. “We need to get this to the bed,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not gonna last long, and I want us to come together.”

It was a sentiment Spock could immediately appreciate, and he immediately led Jim to their bed, pushing him onto it and moving to bite and suck at the side of his neck. The thought occurred to him that he might leave a mark, and that alone was stimulating. He let that slip through the bond, wondering if Jim might want to mark him as well. Jim’s breath puffed against his ear.

“I already left a mark,” he rasped. “Tomorrow, all the Vulcans who come near you will be able to smell it. If Stonn could tell you were fertile, I bet they’ll all be able to tell you’re pregnant. It’s not going to be too hard for them to guess who did it.”

That thought caused a surge of white hot pleasure to flit through his body. It was true – everyone they encountered would be able to tell he belonged to Jim. An insatiable need hit him, and he redoubled his efforts on Jim’s neck, nibbling and suckling ferociously. Jim belonged to him as much as he belonged to Jim, and he was going to make that as obvious as possible.

Jim obviously took well to this idea, bucking up under him as he pulled away to examine his work. “If it’s no good, you can fix it later,” he groaned. “Turn around. Now.”

Spock obeyed hastily, flipping so he faced Jim’s hips, working the zipper down as quickly as he could and freeing Jim’s erection. He had scarcely seen it so engorged, and there was a telling shudder from the man when he took it in hand. Jim worked to free him as well, and before Spock realized the man had been successful, he was engulfed in a wet, cool mouth.

For a moment, his mind blanked, but when he came to his senses, he moved to take Jim into his mouth. It had been some time since they had engaged in this style of intercourse, but they fell into a natural rhythm quickly enough. Spock did what he could to distract himself from what Jim’s actions were doing to him, concentrating on the taste and texture of Jim’s flesh in his mouth.

Indeed, neither of them lasted very long, Jim coming first, flooding Spock’s mouth. The Vulcan swallowed, wincing at the taste, but even that was ignorable when Jim moaned and hummed around him, pulling him into his own orgasm.

Once he was conscious enough to do so, Spock turned himself so he was face to face with his husband. Utter contentment and satiation rolled off Jim, the tiniest of grins evident on his face. He let him catch his breath, laying in silence for a few minutes. And then, after kissing him once, he propped himself up on one elbow.

“Might I inquire as to what motivated you so strongly to initiate a sexual encounter midday?” he asked. Jim looked up at him and, as well as he could laying on his back, shrugged.

“Isn’t being married awesome?” he offered. There was utter sincerity in his words, as well as some amusement. “And, ah. I might have been thinking about it ever since you sent me that info about you craving flower petals for lunch. Is that a normal Vulcan pregnancy craving?”

Spock blinked. “Precisely what is a ‘pregnancy craving’?”

Jim’s only response was to turn his face into the mattress and laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

The progress Vulcans had made since the destruction of their planet was exceptional, to say the least.  Families had their own rudimentary dwellings, solidly constructed with every necessity to a desert lifestyle.  A government building had been erected, and alongside various mass replication facilities and distribution centers stood enough medical centers to cater to all the refugees and visitors, regardless of their species of origin.

It was at one of these medical centers that Spock and Jim met with one Doctor Geoffrey M’Benga, and Jim’s reaction to the man was telling.

“Spock, you didn’t tell me the doctor we’d be seeing would be  _human_ ,” he said, voice barely audible.  The tiniest flitter of irritation made its way through the bond, and Spock nodded.   _What can he tell us that Bones can’t?_

“Dr. M’Benga specializes in Vulcan physiology, and has also has extensive knowledge of human genetics,” Spock explained.  “Of all those stationed on New Vulcan, he is the most appropriate choice in the matter.”

The doctor smirked.  “You’ve brought the records?” he asked.  Spock handed him the PADD he’d gotten from Dr. McCoy.  M’Benga traced the stylus down it once, then set it aside.  “I’ll run my own scans.”

Another flash of irritation came from Jim.

“What are we scanning for?” he asked.  M’Benga raised an eyebrow.

“I’d forgotten how it felt to be the  _recipient_ of a ‘tone’.  Kind of nice,” he shrugged, turning to activate a scanner.  “I’m going to do a full genetic profile.  With the equipment here, I should be able to project a growth pattern both in and extra-utero.  That’ll make it possible to determine whether Spock’s muscular development is going to hinder their growth.”

Spock nodded his approval to the doctor.  “That would be valuable information,” he agreed.  Jim cupped his chin.

“And you said you could project their growth patterns?” Jim inquired.  M’Benga nodded.  After only a brief pause, Jim shook his head.  “Just do the in-utero projections.  I don’t want to see my kids grow up on a screen if I can see it in person instead.”

M’Benga chuckled.  “You don’t have to see it, but I’m doing them right up to age six,” he said, finally lifting the wand from the scanner.  “This won’t take too long.”

Jim reached two fingers out, and Spock returned the gesture immediately, watching the progress on the scanner.  Jim may not have been interested in post-natal growth, but Spock certainly was.  Their physical growth was essentially decided already.  It would not change in time.  Their personalities and  _intellectual_  growth, however, could never be predicted.

That was more than enough a surprise for him.

The scan completed quickly enough, and M’Benga moved silently to download the information onto his PADD.  Spock watched Jim’s eyes follow the man, and the slightest inkling of distrust seeped through the bond into Spock’s subconscious.

 _He has done nothing to warrant any suspicions, Jim_ , he reminded his mate.  Jim frowned, wariness evident even on his expression.

_I don’t know.  I just don’t like him._

It was irrational, but Jim’s mind had been made.  Spock knew nothing he said could amount to any degree of change in that.  He moved to cross his arms, attempting to ignore the slight discomfort of his healing sternum shifting.

M’Benga turned toward them again, eyes still fixed on the screen of his PADD.  “Give me a moment to composite a few scenarios,” he murmured, running the stylus over several areas of the device.  “I promise not to show any projections while you’re in the room, Captain.”

Jim nodded, the frown still etched into his face.  For the most part, the bond was silent.  With some concentration, Spock could pick up a nervousness and anticipation from his mate, but it wasn’t overpowering and it certainly wasn’t unwarranted.  He stroked Jim’s mind lightly, attempting to soothe what little was there.

Finally, the doctor seemed content with the results on the PADD.  He fixed his gaze on Spock.

“Twins complicate things,” he began.  “In this instance, it’s more so than usual.  For one thing, the two have different blood types.  One of them is so different from yours that your body may attempt to reject her.  Your doctor will need to give you a hypo every six weeks to prevent that.”

Spock nodded.  It was understandable.  Jim’s jaw tightened, and the Vulcan once more moved to soothe his bondmate as best he could.

“Another issue is skeletal development, but there’s a note here that your doctor already informed you of that,” he said, sliding the stylus down the screen of the PADD. “If you maintain your present diet, the male twin’s development will be hindered from about twenty weeks onward.  I ran a few scenarios regarding dietary changes.  In order to avoid complications, you’ll need to increase your intake of Vitamin D by approximately two-hundred percent and reduce iron consumption by twelve percent, minimum.  I’ll load the appropriate information onto a PADD for the doctor on Enterprise.”

Jim’s face was suddenly slack.  “Two- _hundred_  percent?” he managed.  M’Benga nodded.  “Wait a second.  If I remember my biology classes right, that can lead to an overdose pretty quickly, even in Vulcans.  How is he going to avoid that?!”

Jim’s concerns certainly were valid, Spock had to admit.  The amount of Vitamin D he could absorb was limited, and there was no guarantee his body would utilize it properly.  M’Benga, however, merely raised an eyebrow.

“He needs to take a catalyzing agent to ensure proper absorption, but otherwise he should be fine,” he stated.  “The overdose would be minor, even without the assistance, but it’s not something you want to risk during pregnancy, I know.  Not that I know how your body’s going to react to all the new hormones – this is my first male pregnancy, and you’re a hybrid to boot.  The whole scientific community is going to want to watch this one.”

Jim bristled visibly.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

M’Benga blinked twice in rapid succession.  Interesting.  “Exactly what it sounds like,” he said.  “Mind you, no one will have access to his files unless he releases them, but once word gets out that a hybrid male has not only received the Male Carrier procedure, but actually conceived, I don’t imagine a physician or geneticist in the Federation isn’t going to want to study everything about it.  I’d advise you try to keep this close to your chests if you want to avoid it.”

Spock nodded.  It had occurred to him, albeit in passing, that the scientific community would be interested in how his pregnancy progressed.  From an objective standpoint, he himself was curious how an interspecies male pregnancy would differ from others.  This apparently had not occurred to Jim, though, if the stunned expression was any indication.

“Shit,” he managed.  “I—that’s good advice.  I mean.  It’s just.  Spock?”

Spock extended two fingers, waiting for Jim to respond.  He did so slowly, eyes wide.  “I do not anticipate encountering any overly-zealous researchers or malicious physicians, especially as it can be assumed the whole of my gestational period will occur on Enterprise,” he explained as evenly as he could, attempting to project as much calm as he could through their bond.  “Any interest is likely to be channeled through more tedious and wearisome methods.  Perhaps the best measure of protection we can create is a system of message interception and diversion.”

There was a brief moment of silence.  “You think we can avoid all that attention by setting up a dummy mailbox?” he asked, incredulity clear in his voice.  When Spock nodded, he clicked his jaw.  “I—I guess that could work.  How long would it take to program one?”

M’Benga cleared his throat, and Jim glared at him in response.  “While you  _are_  my most interesting appointment of the day – probably of the decade, actually,” the doctor frowned.  “I do have other patients today.  We need to finish this up in the next five minutes.”

Jim fisted his hands.  “You mean there’s  _more_?”

M’Benga nodded again.  “Spock is fortunate that his hips are as wide as they are, but he’s still going to have problems as the pregnancy progresses,” the doctor explained.  “Discomfort.  Pain, even.  If it becomes a problem, your ship’s doctor can realign your pelvis, but I don’t recommend it.  There is a very real chance you wouldn’t walk for months after having your pelvis realigned.  You’ll probably need to be on bed rest for the last ten weeks of your pregnancy, actually, but we’ll see how it goes when the time comes.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.  “I’m sure you’ve entered all that in for Bones to have a look at, right?”

“Of course,” M’Benga confirmed.  He moved his stylus to the screen of the PADD once more.  “I’m going to show Spock the growth models.  If you truly don’t want to see them, you can wait outside, Captain Kirk.”

Jim frowned.  “Thank you,” he muttered, glancing at Spock.  “Don’t take too long and  _don’t_  project what they look like at me.  Okay?”

Spock nodded, and then Jim was outside the room, the door sliding shut behind him.  M’Benga laid his PADD flat, tracing a few commands.  Before he could finish the sequence, Spock stood.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said stiffly.  He would not be able to keep from sharing with Jim the images of their children, and as such he could not permit himself to look. “Merely include the growth models in with the data you will be giving Dr. McCoy.”

M’Benga smirked.  “Had a feeling that was going to be your choice,” he murmured, voice light.  He held out the PADD.  “Just take this with you.  It’s your chart, after all.”

Spock took the instrument.  “Much appreciated, Doctor.”

The human’s smirk expanded.  “I think I should mention this now rather than let McCoy break it to you,” he said, “but you have to remember that in Vulcan pregnancies, hormonal changes affect the male – Kirk, in this case – more severely than the one carrying the child.  Don’t be surprised if he starts exhibiting mood swings, nausea, food cravings, or any of that.  It’s tough to tell, since this is an unprecedented situation, but—”

“Acknowledged,” Spock nodded, and he turned to the door and left.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The anniversary of the destruction of Vulcan was a quiet event.  Spock had not been able to attend the first memorial, or even the second.  The Enterprise had been en route to a mining colony the first year, and the second had found them picking up new crewmembers at base.  There was a certain awkwardness in being present only now, and he was aware of the judgment his former classmates were likely to give him.

He shielded this from Jim as much as possible, pressing through the bond instead only vague impressions that the glances they were receiving were due to his scent. Jim seemed to believe it, consciously moving to walk closer to Spock.  They fell into step quickly enough.

His husband was covered in a light sheen of sweat – of course.  Humans were not built for this climate.  His cheeks were flushed and his hair was clinging to his neck and forehead.  The desire to whisk Jim indoors flitted through Spock’s mind briefly, transferring through the bond before he could control it.  Jim let out a snort of laughter upon recognizing it, and Spock had to force himself not to defend his instincts on this matter.

 _I’m not going to melt, Spock_ , his mate informed him cheekily through the bond.   _Besides, I know you like it when I’m flushed and sweaty.  Turns you—oh.  Oh._

Well, at least he wouldn’t have to say anything.  Jim had determined the source of his predicament on his own.   _Indeed_.

Nevertheless, Spock was able to reign in his physiological reactions, though the distraction remained.  It certainly didn’t help that Jim was sending fleeting images through the bond of what they might do when they returned to the ship (one involving an inadvisable use of Spock’s strength in a water shower remaining a little longer than the others) and cataloguing the Vulcan’s reaction to each.  Each image made it more and more difficult to concentrate on where—

“Commander Spock.”

The stream of images stopped, and for an unacceptably lasting moment, Spock was completely disoriented.  He turned his head towards the source of the call, and before he could even identify the speaker, a wave of dizziness crashed over him.

 _Jim?_   He managed, and instantly his mate’s hands were supporting him.  He felt himself wobble a little on his feet, the world tilting and rotating around him.  He couldn’t _balance_.

 _Sit down, Spock_ , Jim told him firmly, and he found himself disinclined to argue.  Jim led him to the ground, and he struggled to regain his equilibrium.  Why was this so difficult?  And why wasn’t Jim acting surprised that this was happening?  His mind was white noise, filtering out the sounds of the wind and the occasional Sehlat’s growl that had been plaguing him since he’d gotten out of the doctor’s office.  He tried once more to find and identify whomever had called him.

With a sudden surge of nausea and a plummeting sensation in his lungs, the noise in his ears morphed into a roar, and he knew no more.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

It was almost surreal, awakening in Enterprise’s sick bay.  Spock felt as though he’d merely blinked, as though only seconds at most had passed, and yet… 

The monitor above him beeped rhythmically, and with a familiarity that was rapidly becoming disconcerting.  There was an used hypospray on the table next to him, and on his other side he found Jim staring, obviously having been mid-conversation with Dr. McCoy when he’d awoken.  Spock became aware of an uncomfortable pressure around his mouth and nose, and he tried to reach a hand up to remove whatever might’ve been compromising the area.

 _Don’t_ , Jim advised, not moving from his position across the room.   _You’ve got atmosphere sickness.  Bones is just trying to reoxygenate your blood.  You’ll probably pass out again if you take the mask off._

Atmosphere sickness?  On New Vulcan?  It hardly seemed plausible.  His species had evolved in an almost identical atmosphere to the colony’s, and he’d grown to maturity in that atmosphere.  He was physiologically suited for it.

_Is it a complication of the pregnancy?_

_No.  Bones says it’s a complication of being stuck in the ship’s artificial atmosphere too long.  Your body adapted to Enterprise’s atmosphere; New Vulcan’s was too much of a shock to your system._

It could’ve happened, he supposed.  His arms and legs felt inordinately heavy, and there was still a hint of white noise in the back of his mind.  He concentrated for a moment on the beeping from his monitor, trying to distract himself.

_How long have I been back on Enterprise?_

Jim shrugged.  “Long enough.  Stonn was the one who called you, by the way.  He pretty much told me to congratulate you and took off,” he said.  “M’Benga’s coming on board to check you out again.  I said no, but Bones says he’s the best.”

McCoy, standing across from Jim, swore.  “Dammit, Jim, I don’t care if you talk with your mind or your mouth,” he growled, “but try to only use one method at a time! Did you tell him about the atmosphere sickness yet?”

Jim rolled his eyes, and Spock felt he could’ve mirrored the gesture.  “Of course I told him, Bones.  It was the first thing he asked,” his husband explained.  “And I bet you’re just jealous you can’t talk to people with your mind.”

Spock doubted it.

“Whatever,” McCoy muttered.  He finally glanced to Spock again.  “By the way, I already checked out Thing One and Thing Two inside you.  No problems with them. Your body probably instinctively sent all the oxygen it could absorb their way.  Of course, that meant there wasn’t enough for you anymore, so voila.  You lost consciousness.”

Spock felt himself relax, and he hadn’t even realized he was tense.  The embryos were undamaged.  That was most fortunate.

“Never thought I’d see the day a Vulcan  _swooned_ , though,” McCoy added.  Equal parts amusement and irritation came through the bond from Jim.

“Shut it,” he muttered.  “Where’s M’Benga?”

McCoy crossed his arms.  “Keep your shirt on,  _Captain_ ,” he said.  “Scotty confirmed he’s onboard and en route to Sickbay.”

Spock wondered briefly if anyone had informed his father that they were no longer coming.  Jim swore.

“Shit, yeah, fuck,” he enunciated clearly.  McCoy snorted.  “I completely forgot.  Shit.  Uh, Bones – watch Spock for me, yeah?  I’ve gotta go tell Sarek what happened. Jesus fucking Christ.  I am the worst husband ever."

McCoy hadn’t even nodded before Jim was rushing out the door.   _I’ve got this. Be right back_ , he called back through the bond.  Spock acknowledged it, listening to his monitor again.

He was becoming far too accustomed to being confined to sickbay.

There was relative silence for a few minutes, something for which he was grateful.  Dr. McCoy was Jim’s friend, and despite the growing familiarity he had with Spock, they were not yet ‘friends’ in any sense of the word.  For now, it was comfortable enough simply awaiting Jim’s return quietly.

The door to sickbay opened, and rather than Jim it was M’Benga who arrived.  The doctors exchanged brief greetings, both glancing over the chart in McCoy’s hands. There was a murmur of something between them that Spock’s ears couldn’t quite pick up, and then M’Benga was approaching.

“Your blood’s almost completely oxygenated,” he informed him, “and we’ve confirmed there should be no lasting affects to the sickness.  I think a cocktail of glucose and dextrin should get you back on your feet.  But I’m advising you now: no going back on-planet.  You’re going to want to readjust  _slowly_  before jumping back in.  Otherwise, your body’s going to do the same thing all over again.”

M’Benga plucked the mask off Spock’s face, pulling him into a sitting position.  Spock raised an eyebrow.

“I’m certain Dr. McCoy could’ve determined this on his own,” he murmured.  “It seems rather superfluous for you to beam aboard simply to confirm with him.  That could have been done by vidscreen.”

M’Benga shrugged.  “I’m also supposed to recalibrate your med-scanners while I’m here.  Dr. McCoy’s going to need more detail for a Vulcan pregnancy.”

That was reasonable, Spock supposed.  He’d barely completed the thought before Jim was bounding back into the room.  He glanced between the two doctors and Spock, panting slightly.

“I miss anything cool?” he asked.  When all he received were pointed looks and a mental sigh from his bondmate, he strode over to sit next to Spock on the biobed. “Talked to your dad.  He’ll come onboard tomorrow to talk to us.  I kinda let it slip that you were pregnant again.  Sorry.”

Spock tilted his head.  “You were barely gone long enough to have made the call at all,” he observed, watching for a reaction from Jim.  “What precisely did you say?”

Jim shrugged, and Spock could feel nervousness clinging to the edges of the bond.  “Oh, you know.  Nothing much,” he tried to dismiss.  When Spock pushed for more mentally, Jim groaned.  “Maybe, uh, something like  _hey, we’re not coming tonight; Spock’s got atmosphere sickness and we’ve gotta make sure the babies are gonna be all right_.  Not to be too specific or anything.  But yeah, something like that might’ve come out.”

“I see,” Spock deadpanned.  A trickle of guilt came from Jim again.

“He agreed to come tomorrow, though!” he defended himself.  “Besides, it’s not like we would’ve been able to tell him in person!  He’d have smelled it on you and been all,  _I see you have chosen to reproduce; how very logical of you_  at us before we could say a word!  Don’t deny it.  It’s probably better this way.”

It likely wasn’t better this way, but there was nothing to do about it now.  He nodded to Jim.  “Acceptable.  And I would appreciate something to eat.  Would you mind?”

Jim’s shoulders sagged with relief.  “Plomeek soup?” he asked.  When Spock nodded, he smiled.  “You got it.  I’ll be right back.”

And that would have to be that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex scene in this chapter could be read as mildly dubious consent, as Spock attempts to bargain with Kirk for sex and resorts to pushing his boundaries to do so. Kirk's reluctance is for the sake of Spock's health. Please skip to the break if you would rather not see this.

Spock was permitted to return to his room for the night after a surprisingly short battery of tests.  On-planet, the local time was approximately 1:24 p.m. when he arrived in his quarters, and although he would have appreciated the opportunity to converse with his father, there was nothing to be done about it now.  He would simply need to wait until morning.

Jim was obviously still conflicted about his unintentional outburst earlier; he paced the tiny space repeatedly, eyes fixed and unmoving on the page of the book he held. His face and mind were carefully blank – Spock couldn’t read him at all.  He could feel his mate flick his eyes over as he dressed for bed, but when he glanced back, the man’s eyes were always back in the book.  The only movement he made that wasn’t pacing was to prop the door to the bathroom open when Spock tried to close it behind him.

“What if you pass out again?” he asked, voice tinged with nerves.  Spock raised an eyebrow.

“I’m certain you would be listening for and  _hear_  the collapse in the event of a loss of consciousness,” he pointed out.  But he knew it wasn’t going to make a difference in this situation.  The human was in one of his  _protective_  moods.  When Jim frowned, he knew the battle was over.  “At least avert your eyes.  I need to urinate.”

Jim nodded, turning his back to the door.  Despite their marriage, bonding, and physical intimacy, this was rather uncomfortable.

“Jesus, Spock.  I’ve seen your equipment  _and_  I’m pretty sure at one point or another I’ve seen something come out of  _all_  your orifices,” Jim called over his shoulder, obviously picking up on his unease.  “Peeing is hardly going to be worse than  _massive hemorrhaging_ or the like.”

Regardless.

“I’ll pee in front of you if it’d make you more comfortable,” he offered, though the sarcasm was obvious.  “Seriously.  I’m not going to suddenly think you’re disgusting because of one natural bodily—”

Spock flushed the toilet, abruptly cutting off his little tirade.  When he emerged, Jim looked smug.

_Told you you could do it._

Spock made his way to the bed, sliding in on his side.  How rare, he couldn’t help but think.  He could hardly remember the last time he had gotten in bed before Jim – save for a few instances of deliberate elicitations of sexual activity in the early weeks of their sex life.  He glanced up at his mate.

The effect, he noticed, was immediate.  Jim clearly remembered those early seductions as well – his pupils clearly dilated, his breath caught, and his scent changed, becoming musky, intoxicating, and irresistible.  Spock never had been capable of denying him when he smelled like that.

“Fuck, Spock,” he swore, taking two stuttering steps toward the bed.  “You  _just_  got out of the hospital!”

Ah.  Jim was misreading his intentions – but he found himself disinclined to correct his assumption.  The doctors hadn’t warned about refraining from sexual activity, after all, and that scent…

“Disrobe,” he breathed.  He could almost  _see_  the shiver that passed through Jim.  Nevertheless, he stood resilient.

“Not tonight,” he said firmly.  Spock raised an eyebrow.

What a predicament.  His scent had provoked him into a state that demanded satisfaction – and it should have been  _his_  responsibility to alleviate his tension.  He considered a new tactic, and immediately sent as much  _lust_  as he could through the bond.

He very nearly  _stumbled_ , eyes wide with arousal and shock.  “I didn’t know you could do  _that_!” he managed to gasp out.  Encouraged, Spock aimed another barrage at him –  _lust, want, need, appreciation, desperation, vulnerability, Jim Jim Jim—please!_

Jim reeled, taking a step backwards.  “Shit.  Jesus Fucking Christ, Spock – I don't want to hurt you!”

Spock could sense Jim erecting what shields he could, and he had to admit that his defenses were crude, but strong.  He could probably break them, but doing so would require too much concentration – and diminish his arousal.

And then, one of the images Jim had distracted him with that afternoon came to mind.  For a moment, his pride and dignity revolted, protesting violently, but it  _would_ work.  And Jim had clearly wanted it – that particular image had held the most investment in it for him.  He’d been so good lately, too, so attentive and supportive…

Perhaps a  _reward_  was in order.

Decision made, Spock stripped himself out of his nightshirt, watching as Jim’s eyebrows knit together.  Not breaking eye contact, he licked one finger – just one, lightly, not enough to do much – and slowly trailed that finger down his chest, circling his nipple and pinching once.  It felt good enough; he moaned lightly, perhaps playing it up a little bit for his husband, before setting to teasing the other.

Jim seemed transfixed.  Good.  Deliberately, Spock drew the covers back down, using his free hand to rub himself through his pants.  Mmm.  Jim’s eyes moved to watch the movements of that hand, and Spock cupped and stroked himself appropriately.

Jim’s willpower was strong, though.  He did not seem willing to give up and give Spock what he wanted yet.  Fair enough – it was a challenge, then.  He stopped teasing his nipples and moved his now unoccupied hand to the waistband of his pants, tugging them slowly over his hips, thighs, and off.  When he returned to his previous position – lounging against the pillows, Jim swallowed, eyes fixed on Spock’s phallus.

He gave it a few theatrical pulls before reaching one hand to the bedside table and retrieving their lubricant.  He smeared a dollop over two of his fingers, reaching down to stroke over his entrance in a manner he hoped Jim would find enticing, and timing it with his mate’s soft pants, he breached himself with both fingers at once.

Spock was not quite so adept at finding his prostate as Jim was, and it took him a few seconds to loosen enough for the penetration to deepen to an extent that stimulating it would be possible.  He used his free hand to masturbate himself again, watching Jim’s face for any change.  When he did find his prostate and jerk lightly into and against his own hands, he felt Jim’s willpower begin to fade.  The battle was almost won.

Not willing to leave it to chance, Spock squirmed as he’d seen in Jim’s fantasy, letting out a small groan.  Jim still wasn’t enticed into action, so Spock continued his ministrations.  He slid a third finger in, muffling a gasp at the tension and burn.  Jim shivered, and when Spock found his prostate again and arched his back, the man _finally_ gave in.

Jim didn’t even bother to remove his clothing; he merely unzipped his pants on his way to the bed, worked himself out of his briefs, and pulled Spock’s free hand to his genitals.  He seemed appropriately aroused, and the Vulcan removed his fingers from himself, using the lubricant to coat his mate.  Together, they lined him up, and  _at last_ , Jim pushed himself into Spock.

The first brush of Jim’s penis against his prostate and the accompanying feedback of Jim’s pleasure caused Spock to jerk, and he came to a sudden realization: he was nearly done  _already_.  Somehow, having Jim watch him masturbate had brought him to an absurd level of arousal.  His phallus was all but dripping onto his stomach, and he knew that if Jim touched him there, it would be over.  He tried desperately to reign in his arousal, but it was impossible.

Jim seemed to sense this, and deliberately he thrust just shy of Spock’s prostate, hands entwining with the Vulcan’s.  The sensation of simply being filled, of having Jim move within him, was wonderful – but thankfully not enough to cause orgasm on its own.  He could have sighed with relief.

His husband leaned in to kiss him on the lips, breath ghosting across his skin with each puff of air he released.  “God,” he groaned, thrusts speeding up minutely.  “Shit, Spock, don’t want to hurt you, babe.  Don’t want to wear you out—”

“You won’t,” Spock said through gritted teeth, moving then to bite lightly at Jim’s jawline.  His mate’s hips pounded a harder rhythm into him.  “I cannot—last anyway…”

Jim’s rhythm stuttered, but it resumed in a moment, hips angling differently so his thrusts began contacting his prostate once again.  Spock shuddered, legs coming up to circle Jim’s waist, to bring him in harder, faster, deeper.  He wanted to last longer, but he knew he needed to come  _now_.

When a warm human hand wrapped around his phallus, that was it.  Two strokes and he found himself thrown into an orgasm that rendered him deaf, dumb, and blind to the rest of the world.  All he knew was the force of his mate’s final thrusts, the pleasure surging through his body and through the bond from Jim, the utter  _white_ overtaking his vision – and if he were to die at that moment, he knew he it would be the best death imaginable.

When he was finally  _capable_  of opening his eyes again, he found Jim had collapsed to his side, one arm draped possessively over his chest.  The human was panting, eyes glassy and flesh pink.  He glanced to Spock, trying and failing for a few seconds to recall how to produce speech.

“Spock,” he managed finally, voice hoarse.  “Don’t think that’s gonna work…every time you need a fuck.”

Well, he thought.  They would wait and see.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

Spock’s father was expected to arrive at approximately 11:00 in the morning, but to the half-Vulcan’s surprise, he and ‘Keilok’ were awaiting them in the cafeteria before shift that morning.  Jim froze briefly, no doubt remembering his faux pas from the day before, but Spock prodded him mentally, and they made their way to the table. Keilok pulled out a seat for Jim next to him.

“Good morning,” Jim greeted.  “Crew doesn’t know, so don’t drop any bombshells on ‘em like I did with you.”

Spock chided him mentally, but Keilok nodded good-naturedly.  “Understandable,” he agreed.  “It is pleasing to see you again.  I trust Spock’s illness has passed?”

Spock nodded.  “Apologies.  I should have anticipated the possibility of developing atmosphere sickness,” he stated, aware that it sounded ridiculous.  Jim certainly didn’t seem to find it necessary, rolling his eyes into his coffee.  “It is unfortunate I missed the memorial.”

His father sipped his tea.  “It is understandable,” he assured him.  “Sybok was also unable to attend the memorial.  He has sent his regards and congratulations to you and Jim in regards to your marriage.”

Jim’s brow furrowed.  “Sybok?”

“My elder half-brother,” Spock supplied.  “He is V’tosh ka’tur – a Vulcan who has rejected logic and embraced emotions.”

Jim raised an eyebrow.  “Your words are neutral, but I’m getting a definite vibe of disapproval,” he observed.  “He’s not the good son, then?”

“It is dangerous.  Let us leave it at that,” he nodded.

Breakfast passed quickly enough, and with no discussion of Spock’s pregnancy.  After they had finished, Keilok accompanied Spock through his rounds in the ship’s labs.  He seemed nostalgic, trailing his fingers over the scopes and dials and scanners in a way the technicians seemed to interpret as  _approvingly_.  Spock couldn’t see it that way – he knew the man well enough, even if they would never be the same.  His movements were  _longing_.  Gentle.   _Loving_.

“This is the finest lab in Starfleet at present,” he found himself murmuring to him.  “Will it always remain so?”

Keilok examined the process of one of Ensign Carlson’s experiments.  “I cannot speak for the Enterprise of this timeline,” he cautioned, “but for the duration of my tenure on that of my time, it was.”

The older man observed the experiments for the day, watching the technicians do their work.  In an interim – all data compiling and no observations to make or record – Spock approached him again, curiosity nearly scorching him.

“I feel I must ask,” he murmured.  “You stated that you had a child before your relationship with your Jim?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.  That was all.  Spock set his shoulders.

“With T’Pring?”

He shook his head.  “I adopted a young hybrid,” he answered.  “I could not help but empathize with her, though I found it shameful at the time.  She was half-Romulan, half-Vulcan, and not accepted by the population of either species.  She went on to become a lieutenant in Starfleet, although…”

Spock could read the hidden message.  “She was neither exceptional nor a disappointment,” she concluded.  Keilok nodded.  “What was her name?”

Keilok’s eyes fixed on a spot on the back wall.  “Saavik.”

 _Saavik_.  Not a Vulcan name – it would have only made the difficulties in acclimating to a Vulcan population worse.  A part of him that wasn’t particularly small remembered that it had been  _Romulans_  who had destroyed his planet.  He remembered that they had once nearly thrown Vulcan into civil war, that he had once very nearly lost Jim to the hands of one – but it was presumptive.  He could not blame the entire species for the actions of one psychopath with a vendetta.

Still.

“Do you believe she exists in this timeline?” he asked the older man.  His expression became unreadable, even to Spock.

“I do not believe so,” he stated concisely, “and you are held to no obligations if she is.”

How appropriate that he understood Spock’s concerns.  He had to know, though.  “And Jim’s child?”

“A son.  David,” Keilok answered, jaw tight.  “Carol – the woman who would’ve been his mother – is deceased in this timeline.  She has been for more than ten years. Him having another child is hardly a possibility, I believe.”

And again, he understood Spock’s concerns perfectly.  He nodded, hand traveling to his abdomen.  The twins would be the only children either of them would have – and that seemed sufficient.  It was a comforting thought for the half-Vulcan.

Keilok nearly smiled at him, perhaps understanding his thoughts again.  “You are fortunate,” he informed him.

And this, he already knew.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

Spock arranged to have lunch served in their quarters, spending a few extra minutes before Jim arrived with Sarek and Keilok masking the scent from their activities the night before.  Not a minute after the odor neutralizer had dissipated did they enter the room, his father taking in the room. 

“How utilitarian,” he observed.  Jim snorted.

“I’m sure you meant, ‘how cramped and blasé,” he corrected, grin lighting up his face.  “But we’re only here at night, so it’s okay.  Chess, sleep, etc.  You get the idea.”

Keilok nodded.  “I’m certain we do,” he confirmed.  “This room is only suited to a limited number of activities, after all.”

They sat at the table, each quiet as they began their meal.  Jim was clearly in some measure of distress, eyes flicking from Sarek to Spock.  Anxiety and adrenalin surged in his veins.  Spock tried to ignore it, aware that Keilok was amused by Jim’s eagerness to please.

“So you are pregnant,” his father finally breached the topic.  Jim choked on his bread.  Spock merely nodded.  “And it is with twins?”

“Indeed,” he confirmed.  “We began our attempt very shortly after our second wedding ceremony.”  Very shortly after, Jim reminded him.  “We were quite surprised when we conceived so quickly.  The conception of multiples was fortuitous.”

Sarek raised an eyebrow.  “You did not utilize any fertility drugs or medical assistance?” he asked.  Spock shook his head.  “Then the conception of multiples is fortuitous indeed.”

Jim finally relaxed.  “Glad to hear you’re happy for us,” he grinned.  When Sarek did not reply, Jim’s grin froze on his face.  “You  _are_  happy for us, right?”

His father sipped his tea, face grave.  “I am pleased that you have chosen to reproduce,” he said, and the tiniest bit of amusement came through the bond from Jim. “However, I must inquire: do you intend to raise your offspring on this vessel?”

Spock nodded.  Jim’s eyes narrowed.

“Of course we are.  This is our home, and these are  _our_  kids,” he ground out.  “Where else are we supposed to raise them?  This is our  _life_.”

Sarek chewed a bite of his salad thoughtfully.  “Indeed.  But your  _life_  is not presently conducive to childrearing,” he said, looking into Jim’s eyes.  Spock’s stomach fluttered.  “I do not feel it would be appropriate to raise children here.”

Jim’s jaw slacked, and Spock  _knew_  the trembling of rage in the bond was only a fraction of what was stewing in Jim’s mind.  “And yet  _you_  were the one to suggest we start having kids right away,” he said through gritted teeth.  “What exactly did you expect us to do?  Send them to a nursery for three years?”

His father lowered his silverware.  “I believed you would seek assistance or have Spock leave Starfleet,” he admitted.  And Spock could no longer tell if it was Jim or himself who was more upset.

“Have Spock  _leave Starfleet_?!” Jim hissed.  Sarek nodded.  “No.  Absolutely not.  He’s one of the most respected and important officers in the service.  No way I’m ‘having’ him leave.”

Sarek leveled his gaze with Jim’s.  “In that case, I have another proposal,” he said.  Spock’s relief at Jim’s indignation at the mere mention of him leaving the fleet began to wane, quickly replaced with trepidation.  “I will provide assistance in raising your offspring.  Once your mission is complete, your parental responsibilities would be restored.”

Spock had to admit, the offer was logical.  Perhaps even a good offer.  But as Jim’s eyes flashed a dangerous shade of blue, he knew it would not be an acceptable one.

“We appreciate the  _proposal_ ,” he said icily, “but we are going to raise our kids ourselves,  _thank you_.”

His father was quiet for a moment.  “You are making a mistake,” he advised.

“I’ll take that chance,” Jim growled.  “Spock, we have shift.  I’m sure your  _father_  and the ambassador can show themselves off the ship."

Spock stood, nodding goodbye to his father and Keilok and following Jim to the turbolift.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the bout of atmosphere sickness, Spock remained entirely healthy for the next month.  It perplexed Jim, who was adamant that anyone who was pregnant, regardless of physiology,  _absolutely must_  exhibit specific symptoms.  And no matter how many times Spock explained that his heritage made it extremely unlikely, Jim continued to insist that something would occur.

When Spock selected a dish outside his norms (soybeans had become particularly appetizing), Jim would crow that he was having a craving.  When his increased intake of vitamin D caused a spike in his libido, his mate attributed the change to  _hormones_.

And the morning of Komack’s court martial, when Spock found himself unable to remove himself from bed and paralyzed by nausea, Jim was  _unacceptably_ pleased.

“I told you,” he murmured, sounding smug even as he held a biohazard bag under Spock’s chin and ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair.  Spock’s stomach lurched, and he grudgingly had to admit that yes, this symptom was  _definitely_  related to the pregnancy.  He opened his mouth to tell Jim such, but instead found himself expelling stomach acid into the bag.

Jim was quieter then, moving his hand to Spock’s back and rubbing soothingly.  He tried to suppress the nausea, but there was little he could do but wait until the urge to vomit ebbed.

It took time, but eventually his digestive tract righted itself, and he was able to begin his morning routine.  Jim went about his own routine silently, tying off the biohazard bag and sending it down the appropriate chute in the bathroom.  For a moment after the chute closed, Jim stood frozen.  Just as Spock turned to inquire, Jim launched himself to the toilet, heaving into the bowl with a loud cough.

Intriguing.

Spock knelt at his bondmate’s side, watching his face for signs of distress.  He gave no indication of illness or injury – and the spell seemed to break after only two or three minutes.

“Damn,” Jim mumbled, cheeks pink.  Spock ran one finger over a rounded ear.  The human looked up at him sheepishly.  “I guess I’m a sympathy puker.  Would’ve been handy to know that earlier.”

Spock made a note to ask M’Benga for advice next time he communicated with him.

Their routine was finished only 7.2 minutes after when they would normally depart for the mess hall, leaving them plenty of time to complete their meal before shift began.

“I’ll talk to Bones about your nausea,” Jim promised.  Spock shook his head.

“It will not be necessary,” he told him.  “Once I am able to isolate the cause, I can regulate it myself.  I do not require medication.  You, however, may want to consult him regarding  _your_  regurgitation.”

“Did you seriously just call it ‘regurgitation’?” Jim asked, lips curling into an amused smile.  Spock wasn’t given an opportunity to answer, as Nyota approached their table.  She took a seat beside him, shifting her dress jacket uncomfortably.

“I wonder sometimes whether they  _designed_  these things to be as restricting as possible,” she mumbled as a greeting.  Jim barked out a laugh, and she glared at him, almost appearing playful.  “It’s a legitimate concern, Captain.”

“Of course,” Jim agreed, eyes crinkling with mirth.  “But even so, they’re kind of spectacular.  My ass looks firmer than a mannequin’s.”

Nyota rolled her eyes.  “Ever the narcissist,” she muttered, but even Spock could tell there was no heat in her words.  Her expression changed slowly, melting into one of concern.  “I keep wondering what I’m going to have to say today.  I’ve never been involved in a court martial before.”

Spock met the woman’s eyes.  “It will not be so much an  _interview_  as a  _debriefing_ ,” he explained.  “You will simply need give a statement on what you observed of Komack’s behavior.  Jim and I will give our own statements last, and after the admirals have deliberated, we will be informed of the verdict.”

She squirmed in her seat.  How uncharacteristic of her.  “And we don’t have to talk about what happened after, right?”

Jim raised an eyebrow.  “I don’t know.  I think you’d only  _have_  to if the incident extended beyond when Spock was shot.”

Nyota crossed her arms, and Spock almost thought she looked defensive.  That hardly seemed possible – Nyota was always on the offensive.  “I might’ve accidentally flung the gun into the corner without disarming it.  And it might have unloaded a projectile into the consol’s main screen.”

Spock considered admonishing her – reminding her that it was part of her responsibility as a member of Starfleet to maintain the ship’s integrity – but Jim reacted first, snorting.

“Is  _that_  why it was so shiny and clean when I got back the next day?” he asked.  Nyota looked pointedly at her plate.  “You  _destroyed_  the main screen.  With a  _projectile weapon_  that was older than your  _grandparents_.  Oh, Lieutenant Uhura, I am  _way_  too amused to consider reporting you for that.  Just make sure you tell me how you got it fixed without me noticing, okay?”

Nyota nodded, picking up her bagel at last.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

The testimony given by the crew would on its own have easily convicted Komack; having his own testimony taken might have been superfluous, Spock thought. Regardless, he gave it – speaking with honesty, detachment, and conviction.  Only after he had given a full account of the incident did anyone  _ask_  anything of him. 

“So, Spock,” Admiral Pike began.  “I understand that your  _pregnancy_  is what prompted Komack to assault you?”

Spock nodded.  “Yes.  He was present when I informed my husband that I was pregnant,” he confirmed.  “He later referenced the pregnancy – slightly before the attack – and was informed that it was not my first.”

Pike cocked his head.  “You’ve been pregnant before?”

A slight pang struck his chest, but he nodded regardless.  “Jim and I  _did_  conceive another child,” he said quietly, “but we suffered a miscarriage approximately two months into the pregnancy.”

Pike was quiet for a moment.  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured.  “Was your crew aware?”

“Of the first pregnancy, yes,” he said.  “But they are not aware that we have conceived again.”

Pike nodded.  “I understand,” he informed Spock.  “We won’t tell anyone about it.  You ought to have your privacy for once.”

There were no further questions, and Spock exited the room.  Jim caught him just outside, manipulating their hands into an embrace and wrapping his free arm around him, projecting comfort and reassurance.  Spock noticed Nyota watching them out of the corner of his eye, but it seemed not to matter.  Jim met his eyes.

“He’ll be found guilty,” he assured him.  Of course he would.  The conviction would certainly be inevitable.  It was only the sentencing that remained in question.  Jim clearly heard him think this and raised an eyebrow.  “Oh, come  _on_.  I’m playing the role of the supportive husband.  Indulge me a little.”

They weren’t waiting  _five minutes_  before the verdict and sentencing results were returned.   _Guilty of attempted murder_  and  _assault on an endangered species_  were the most relevant of the six charges.  The sentence: twenty years in a rehabilitation center.

The relief of the crew was palpable, and the younger ensigns were loud in their glee – jumping, hugging, laughing.  Spock couldn’t conceive of why they were so excited, particularly given that so few of them had so much as  _spoken_ to him.  But most importantly, Jim was pleased.  And that was more than acceptable.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

The next few weeks passed with little change.  Jim awoke nauseous most days, despite Dr. McCoy’s increasingly creative cocktails of anti-nausea hyposprays. Spock’s diet evolved to encourage the twins’ development.  Biweekly exams in medical bay.  McCoy’s fits every time his cocktails failed to stem Jim’s nausea or exhaustion. 

And then, abruptly, Pike called them with new and distinctly troubling orders.

“Ambassador Sarek has asked that you return Sybok to New Vulcan as soon as possible,” he informed them, face grave.  “I’m sorry.  There isn’t anything I can do to change your orders.  You are the only ship close enough to pick him up in the time span we’ve been given.”

Jim frowned.  “Why is it so imperative?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Pike shrugged.  “Spock, I know you and Sybok aren’t close.  I’m sorry to make you do this.”

The call ended, and Jim looked quietly to Spock.  “You told Pike about Sybok?”

“He met him once,” he confirmed.  “I would prefer he hadn’t.”

Jim didn’t seem offended by the discrepancy, instead moving to confirm the coordinates they were now heading towards.  After he’d received and checked the transmission, he turned back to Spock.

“Does Sybok know you’re pregnant?” he asked.  Spock shook his head.  “Should we tell him ahead of time?”

Spock considered the question.  Sybok would be able to determine that he was pregnant on his own.  Telling him beforehand might prevent him from proclaiming it in front of the crew – but it might not.  In fact, it probably would not make a difference whether they told him before his arrival or not.  He had never been one for social restraint.

His hand traveled to his abdomen.  He’d had to start wearing a larger size in trousers, and the stitching of his shirts hand needed to be altered to keep his expanding stomach from becoming obvious to the crew.  Jim had hardly noticed, even when Spock was nude – but it would not be long before it became obvious to anyone who witnessed him that he was pregnant.

“Rather than informing  _Sybok_ ,” he decided, glancing to Jim, “I believe it may be prudent to inform the  _crew_.”

Jim stared.  “You believe  _what?!”_

Spock raised an eyebrow.  “The pregnancy has already progressed to sixteen weeks,” he reminded his mate.  “It has stabilized.  It is nearly to the halfway mark.  And besides, Jim – it will be noticeable to the blindest of the crew within the month.”

“You’re not showing,” Jim grumbled, turning his face away.  A thrill rushed through Spock at the realization that  _he_  would be the one to enlighten Jim here, and he moved forward pulling his shirt up over than his rounded abdomen.

“Actually, Jim,” he murmured, taking his jaw in his hand and turning his head to look at his stomach, “I am  _very much_  ‘showing’.”

Spock watched, pulse accelerating as his jaw slackened.  Almost unconsciously, it seemed, his hand stretched out to rest on his abdomen, tracing over the gentle curve with wide eyes.  The emotion on his face was nearly  _reverent_.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.  “Spock.  Oh my  _God_.”

“You’ve known of the pregnancy for thirteen weeks,” he reminded him, amused when he brought his other hand up to his abdomen.

“I’m suddenly more immediately appreciative.  Shut up.”

Jim’s eyes were locked on Spock’s midsection.  He turned him sideways, taking in the curve.  “Wow,” he managed.  “I want to record this.  That’s—I mean— _look_. That’s from our  _kids_.”

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “Although in approximately twenty weeks, they will be more accessible.”

Jim swallowed.  “Just twenty weeks,” he murmured.  “Hard to believe.”

He hesitated.  “I can very nearly connect with them telepathically when I meditate,” he admitted.  “If they follow typical Vulcan development patterns, they will begin to communicate vague impressions within four weeks.”

Jim froze.  “You’ll be able to meld with them?”

“Something similar,” Spock confirmed.  Then, a beat later, “will we be informing the crew?”

Jim looked him in the eye again, finally.  “Yeah,” he agreed, moving to remove his shirt entirely and undoing the button on his trousers.  “Yeah.  We will.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains violence and minor character death

It was during the mission briefing that they agreed to inform the crew.  Jim had been eager to do so, practically bouncing as they went over their plans.  He had, however, had a sudden change of heart at the last second – one for which Spock was quite grateful.  
   
“And once we’ve dropped the new colonist at the transport dock in Sector Two, we will resume out previous course,” Jim finished, propping his hands on his hips.  “Everyone got it?”  
   
There was a murmur of confirmation, and a few crewmembers moved to stand.  Jim cleared his throat.  “Before you leave, I believe Mr. Spock has an announcement.”  
   
The attention of the room turned to the Vulcan, and Spock paused to phrase his statement.  “In approximately three months, I will be placed on leave from active duty.  This leave will last between twelve and twenty weeks,” he informed them, watching the confusion blossom on their faces.  Nyota’s expression, however, changed to one of surprise and excitement.  How easily she understood.  “I will remain onboard for the duration, but my responsibilities will be greatly diminished.”  
   
Chekov was the first to react, tentatively raising his hand in question.  “But Commander,” he said, eyes wide.  “Why won’t you be working if you’ll be on the ship?”  
   
Jim’s excitement was growing, and Spock could not keep him in suspense.  “That, Ensign Chekov, is because I will be placed on bed rest at that time,” he replied.  “It will coincide with the start of my paternity leave.  I am sixteen weeks pregnant.”  
   
Nyota let out a whooping laugh, quite unlike anything Spock had heard from her before.  “I knew it!” she crowed, her voice taking a nearly musical tone, ringing with glee.  Her grin was wider than he’d ever seen it, and for a long moment he found himself unable to speak.  Her grin naturally faded into a warm, closed-lip smile, and with a gentle voice, she said, “I knew it.  Congratulations, Spock.”  
   
Now he remembered why he’d been so drawn to the linguist.  Jim echoed his agreement.  “Thank you, Nyota.”  
   
Sulu, however, seemed markedly less excited.  “Wait, you guys are having a baby?” he asked.  “I—that’s great and all, but aren’t you moving way fast?  How are you going to raise a kid on a starship?”  
   
Chekov smacked his arm, and Jim frowned.  “Sulu, that’s our problem – not yours.”  
   
Scott leaned back.  “It’s a decent concern, Captain.  It just means he wants the best for you and the baby.”  
   
Spock raised an eyebrow.  “Your concern is noted, Lieutenant,” he told him, “but once again, it is our decision and our responsibility.  Our impending parenthood will not affect our command.”  
   
Chekov again raised a hand, looking eager this time.  “So, if you are at sixteen weeks,” he began, tone light and pace quick, stumbling slightly over his words, “you know if it is a boy or girl, yes?”  
   
“Yes,” Jim confirmed.  Chekov nodded him on.  “But you’re using the wrong pronoun.”  
   
Chekov waved his hand in the air.  “All right.  Is he or she a he or she?”  
   
Spock understood Jim’s deliberate trap now and shook his head.  “They,” he stressed, “are both.”  
   
Scott was the first to pick up on Spock’s statement.  “Wait, twins?” he asked.  “Oh, but – twins or more?”  
   
“Just twins,” Jim reassured him, just as Nyota let out a noise of surprise.  Jim looked at her.  “Something wrong, Lieutenant Uhura?”  
   
Nyota stiffened in her seat.  “Vulcans don’t have twins,” she argued, sounding uncertain how to word her statements.  “I’m a bit surprised, is all.  Did you introduce multiple embryos?  Or did you have to use fertility drugs?”  
   
Jim looked unforgivably smug, and Spock felt his intense pride and amusement before he spoke again.  “Good old fashioned elbow grease, Lieutenant,” he smirked.  He reconsidered after a moment.  “Well, I guess elbows weren’t really the joints in question, but I think you understand.  We just got really lucky this time around, I guess.”  
   
“That’s a lot of luck,” she said, sounding skeptical.  “Spock?”  
   
“The conception of twins was fortuitous, but unplanned,” he confirmed.  “We intended to conceive only one infant.”  
   
“Not that we’re complaining,” Jim added, and that was the last conversation to be had for awhile.  The crew offered their own forms of congratulations – physical strikes to Jim’s back seemed most prevalent, particularly among the men – and Nyota approached to examine his abdomen, letting out that toothy grin again when she found the curve.  
   
And when Spock met Jim’s eyes, he knew this was the best they could’ve asked for.  
   
<><><><><><><><><><><><>   
   
When Sybok was brought onto the ship, Spock found himself rendered immobile by his appearance.  His facial hair had grown out, unkempt and gnarled.  The clothes he wore resembled, in some ways, a bastardization of priests’ robes, unnecessarily decorated and gaudy.  His ears were covered by grease-heavy hair reaching towards his chin.  
   
Sybok’s nostrils flared.  “Congratulations, brother,” he offered, approaching with one hand emerging from his robes.  “If I may?”  
   
Spock shook his head.  “It is too early,” he explained almost hastily.  “The pregnancy is barely at sixteen and a half weeks.  The scent is only so strong because I am carrying twins.”  
   
Sybok’s hand dropped, disappearing back into the folds of his fluorescent robe.  “I see,” he said, looking disappointed.  Spock tried not to recoil at the human expression on his elder brother’s face.  “Your husband – Jim, I believe? – I look forward to meeting him.”  
   
“He feels likewise,” Spock admitted.  “Before that, though, I’m certain you require a meal – perhaps a shower?”  
   
His brother’s hand emerged again, brushing through his tangled beard.  “I suppose I could stand to groom.  I must be quite a sight,” he joked, and to Spock’s immense discomfort, he smiled.  “Would you be willing to direct me to my quarters?”  
   
Spock nodded, motioning for the full-blooded Vulcan to follow him.  His scent wafted towards him when he moved, and it engendered in him a surge of adrenaline.  He turned on his heel to look him in the eye, one hand going to the phaser in his belt.  “You are in Pon Farr.”  
   
He stepped back, nodding in the affirmative.  “My entire convent was infected by an unknown biological entity – some sort of catalyst – which invokes and accelerates Pon Farr.  One by one, our members have succumbed to the madness,” he informed him.  “I am close to entering the Plak Tow.  The healers on New Vulcan may be able to prevent this – but they may not, and I may need to take a mate.  Either way, I must arrive at the colony as expediently as possible.”  
   
Spock maintained his distance, keeping his hand near his phaser.  “We may need to quarantine you,” he said evenly.  “The last time we transported a man in Pon Farr, the results were nearly catastrophic.”  
   
“I understand,” Sybok nodded.  Spock stood, completely on edge and ignoring Jim’s concerned prodding.  “It would be best for you to initiate said quarantine as soon as possible.”  
   
He nodded, turning again and leading him to the turbolift.  Few guest quarters were equipped with quarantine locks, and the ones they had prepared for him were no exception.  He would have to be moved.  Spock registered the change in status and room arrangement on his PADD, forwarding the notice to Jim.  Once the confirmation was noted, he led him down the hallway.  
   
“Have you explained Pon Farr to Jim yet?” his brother suddenly asked, halfway to his rooms.  Spock shook his head, not looking back.  “This may be your best opportunity.  Whatever has initiated mine may affect you as well.  The risk to you, your mate, and your unborn children is significant.”  
   
They arrived at the newly registered quarters.  “There are no recorded cases of Pon Farr during gestation,” Spock pointed out.  “The risk is minimal.  However, I will take your suggestions under advisement.”  
   
Sybok nodded, waiting for Spock to key him into his rooms.  As he did so, he noted the violent spasming of his hands.  Against his better judgment, he met the older man’s eyes.  
   
“Would you like a sedative to dull the worst of the symptoms while we are in transit?” he asked.  Sybok shook his head.  “Brother.  If you are already on the verge of the Plak Tow—”  
   
He stepped inside.  “I do not wish to be drugged,” he said firmly.  “I understand your concern for the safety and wellbeing of your crewmates – and your brother – but I am afraid it is against my beliefs.  I must admit, though, that I am flattered at the display of any concern for me.”  
   
Spock raised an eyebrow as minutely as possible.  “May I ask as to how this is ‘against your beliefs’?”  
   
Sybok’s hands spasmed again, worse this time than before.  “Spock.  If I am to die because of this, I wish to be cognizant of it,” he replied.  “I would rather not enter the beyond in confusion as to how I got there.”  
   
Spock had learned long ago not to argue with Sybok over his religious beliefs.  “Very well,” he conceded.  “I will commence quarantine, then.”  
   
Sybok saluted.  “Until our arrival.”  
   
Spock returned the gesture.  “Likewise.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The day before they were to arrive at New Vulcan was like any other day.  The bridge was calm.  Sulu was, as always, entering and reentering coordinates, a sharp eye on the screens and scanners for any impending debris or obstacles.  Chekov calculated and recalculated.  Scanners showed nothing of interest.  
   
Jim and Nyota had yet to return from lunch – which was not entirely unusual.  Nyota had taken to having her meals with Lieutenant Scott, and Jim’s lunch hours consisted these days of eating for twenty minutes and braving Dr. McCoy’s hyposprays for the remaining forty.  Nothing they had done thus far had stemmed Jim’s nausea or mood swings, and privately, Spock though nothing would.  
   
Jim seemed to be blocking his experience today, only a low buzz of emotions Spock couldn’t identify lurking in the back of his mind.  He attempted to prod for information, but his mate did not respond.  
   
“So, when Komack shot you,” Sulu spoke suddenly, eyes still on the screen, “did he know you were pregnant?”  
   
Chekov tensed, and Spock raised an eyebrow.  “Yes, Lieutenant,” he confirmed.  “It is likely what prompted his attack.  Why do you inquire?”  
   
Sulu was quiet.  “Just thinking what a sick bastard he is,” he muttered.  Chekov sighed in obvious relief.  The helmsman finally turned to meet Spock’s eyes.  “Look.  I know I came off as harsh when you first told us.  But I really am happy for you guys.  You’re gonna be awesome parents, and you have my full support.”  
   
Spock felt something slip through the bond – shock, perhaps? – and recognized it as Jim’s.  Yet when he prodded, Jim was again silent.  “We appreciate your support.”  
   
Chekov turned to face him too, smile wide.  “You have my support too, Sir,” he informed the Vulcan.  “I have many cousins.  Twenty-seven.  And I am the oldest.  If you need any help—”  
   
“I think he gets it,” Sulu interrupted, an easy smile on his face.  “Commander, I think you’ve got everyone’s support.  At least, you do until someone says otherwise.”  
   
Spock would’ve replied, but Jim was suddenly back in his head, concern and fear mingling with shock as he struggled to find the right words.   _Spock.  I need you to come to sickbay.  Right now._  
   
Spock didn’t question it, rising to his feet.  “Appreciated, Lieutenant,” he stated, turning towards the turbolift.  “You have the conn.”  
   
He wondered briefly why Jim was having him come to sickbay so abruptly.  Their last appointment had been less than five days ago, and McCoy’s cocktails had not yet produced any results, positive or negative, on Jim’s symptoms.  The door to the lift opened, and he crossed into sickbay.  
   
Before he could glance about, he found himself being embraced by his mate, shock and empathy rolling off him in potent waves.  The scent of human blood was thick in the room, mixing with antiseptic and cloying his senses.  “I’m sorry,” Jim murmured against his shoulder.  “I don’t—I’m sorry.”  
   
Spock’s confusion was growing.  He scanned the room, alarmed to find Nyota hugging her knees on a biobed.  Her uniform was torn, and a large patch of her hair – possibly even her scalp – was missing, covered in a grafted medical dressing.  She looked to have been crying, and beside her was Lieutenant Scott.  One arm was bandaged – obviously shattered, if the bone mender hadn’t been able to fix it – and the other was wrapped around the communications officer.  
   
McCoy stepped forward.  “Your brother escaped quarantine,” he explained quietly.  Jim held tightly to Spock.  "He--wasn't himself."  
   
“You were forced to subdue him,” he surmised.  Jim stiffened, and McCoy shook his head.  
   
“This isn’t gonna be easy to hear,” he murmured.  “Sybok went insane.  I don’t know what caused it, but I’m gonna find out.  He entered the mess and went to attack Uhura first—”  
   
Scott must’ve protected her, he determined.  Possibly Jim too – he’d need to see him to check for injuries.  Meanwhile, McCoy continued.  
   
“Well, anyway, you can see what happened to everyone.  When Jim stepped in—I don’t know what happened,” the doctor said, sounding unnerved.  “He’d knocked Scotty’s phaser out of his hand when he attacked him, and he had a flash of lucidity when Jim came in—and he used it.  On himself.  Sybok committed suicide, Spock.  I’m sorry.”  
   
Spock nodded, the shock of the situation slowly starting to fade.  He pulled Jim away from him, looking him over for injuries.  
   
“I’m fine,” his mate murmured.  “Spock.  Don’t think about that now.”  
   
No.  He had to.  He looked back to Nyota and Lieutenant Scott.  “Are you functional?” he asked.  Nyota slowly nodded, and Scott tightened his grip on her.  “Nyota, did he attempt to meld with you?”  
   
She shook her head, and he allowed himself to feel the relief that accompanied this confession.  Finally, he turned to the doctor.  “Have you isolated Sybok’s remains?”  
   
“You don’t need to think about that kind of stuff yet,” McCoy told him firmly.  “Your brother’s dead.  Take some time to grieve.  I’ve talked to Jim about it, and the two of you are off duty until I’m sure whatever affected Sybok isn’t gonna affect you.  And don’t you argue about it – just get back to your quarters and stay there.”  
   
There were a thousand things Spock needed to do – inform the council, Starfleet, his father; make arrangements for Sybok’s remains; rewrite the duty roster – but he let Jim lead his thoughts away from them.  The captain looked him in the eye.  
   
“Just come to bed with me,” he murmured, sounding surprisingly vulnerable.  Spock found himself nodding.  
  
<><><><><><><><><><><><>  
  
For a long time, Jim merely curled around him in bed, still emanating shock.  Spock could do nothing to help him there - he was in a similar state.  He hadn't been close to his brother, and in fact Sybok had usually been the source of great shame for his clan.  His willing embrace of emotion and firm belief in religious principles and practices long abandoned had made him a pariah of Vulcan society.  That a descendant of Surak himself could live such a life was unacceptable to most.  
  
But for all that, he had been his brother.  There was cause to grieve.  
  
Jim pushed his nose into the back of Spock's neck, tightening his arms around him.  "I'm sorry I couldn't have done more," he murmured.  "I'll show you the whole thing later.  I promise."  
  
"I know," Spock replied.  His mate sighed against his neck.  "I will need to know what happened if I am to accurately apprise my father about what occurred."  
  
Jim groaned.  "Let me do it," he said.  "You weren't there.  It shouldn't be your responsibility."  
  
"You do not know the reason behind his madness," Spock argued mildly.  His husband shifted.  
  
"Neither do you."  
  
And before he could control it, a sliver of guilt and trepidation slipped through the bond, apprehension and fear accompanying it as it wormed its way into Jim's mind.  The human's intake of breath was swift and telling.  He propped himself up on an elbow, staring down at Spock.  
  
"You do know," he stated, eyes wide.  Spock nodded.  
  
"It's why he was in quarantine."  
  
Spock nodded again.  
  
"It's what happened to Saron, too."  
  
Jim had indeed considered this well.  Spock nodded, preparing for the final inquiry - the final statement.  When he spoke, his voice wavered.  
  
"It could happen to you someday."  
  
Spock closed his eyes.  "Not  _could_ ," Spock murmured, not daring to look at his husband.  " _Will_."  
  
He felt Jim sit up beside him, concern and aggravation emanating off him.  When at last Spock opened his eyes, he found Jim's blazing at him.  
  
"Okay," the human breathed, visibly trying to calm himself.  "Explain."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to noncon/dubcon

Spock searched for a place to begin.  What could be said?  How could he make a human understand the reality of Pon Farr?  Jim’s eyes bore into him, and he sat up, slowly arranging himself as he attempted to buy himself more time.  The best option, he decided as he settled across from his mate, was to keep his mind to himself as he explained, and he carefully shielded himself from Jim.

The human’s eyes narrowed.  “Don’t block me out, Spock,” he growled.  Spock reached two fingers out to calm him, watching him absently return the gesture.  “I mean it.  You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“And I shall do precisely that,” Spock replied.  “The accompanying thoughts and images I may produce as I speak will likely confuse you, and I want to make this as easily understood as possible.  Have patience, and I will explain.”

Jim nodded, moving his hands down to grip his knees.  “Fine.  But we’re not leaving until I understand  _perfectly_.”

Acceptable, Spock thought.  And with a deep breath, he began.

“It is a madness that overtakes us,” Spock stated, eyes locked with Jim’s.  “It is an ancient, violent cycle that afflicts all Vulcans.  It strips us of our logic and reason every seven years and demands that we give in to our basest needs.  It is called the  _Pon Farr_  – the drive to mate.”

Jim blinked.  “Wait, it’s a sex thing?”

“Silence,” Spock admonished, attempting to control himself.  Humans could not be expected to understand this so easily.  “It is more significant than that.  If it were merely a sexual drive, it would not pose so grave a threat to us.   _Pon Farr_  results from a disruption of our synaptic pathways.  It causes aggression, confusion, and extreme sensitivity to psychic phenomena, and that is merely in the earliest stages.  As it progresses, we enter the  _Plak Tow_  – the  _blood fever_  – and it progresses to violent outbursts, mental instability, and eventual insanity.  If it is not resolved in time, the individual’s body will cease maintaining homeostasis.  The body will attack itself, and the afflicted individual will die an extraordinarily painful death.”

Jim’s jaw dropped open, and Spock took another deep breath.

“Pon Farr is resolved only when the urge to mate and bond has been satisfied,” he explained.  “Even for bonded pairs like us, there is a need for extended telepathic contact in addition to the need to copulate.  It takes days to resolve, and there is great danger to both parties throughout the experience.  Physical damage can be healed – but mental damage, which is a very real possibility, may be impossible to repair.”

Jim swallowed.  “That’s why you were so concerned about whether Sybok melded with Uhura,” he stated blandly.  Spock nodded.  “When does it happen?”

“After the first time, every seven years,” Spock informed him.  “My elder self has informed me that I will experience my first Pon Farr at the age of thirty-five.  We have some time to prepare.”

Jim was silent after Spock finished his explanation.  Spock could feel him processing the information he’d been given, emotions swirling just beneath the surface of his mind.  His face was blank, hands clenched on his knees.  The Vulcan wished to himself, irrationally, that he would respond.  Anger, shock, fear – anything.  But he was still.  He was quiet.

Finally, his eyes dropped.  “We’ve been married over a year,” he said blandly.  “When were you going to tell me?  When you turned thirty-five and started to go crazy?”

 _Hurt_.

Spock struggled to find an answer appropriate for the situation.  His first instinct was to credit the stigma attached – the way his people hid and refused to at all discuss the condition.  The silent agreement to never discuss it with outsiders.  It was certainly an acceptable answer – he could claim it was his upbringing that made him so reluctant to talk about this.

But he couldn’t lie.  Not to Jim.  As humiliating as it was, he had to say it.

“I was afraid,” he confessed.  Jim’s eyes went wide, and alongside the empathy and the worry drifting from him came a bolt of shock.  Spock forced himself to continue. “I did not want to believe I would suffer it.  I had hoped that my human genes would keep me from suffering it – but my elder self relieved me of that delusion.  I may someday be affected in the same manner you saw Saron and Sybok.  I will lose control.”

Jim swallowed, reaching out to lay a hand on Spock’s knee.  “But old you said I—or, at least, the man I was in his time—handled it well,” he pointed out.  “Maybe it won’t be as  _bad_  with you.”

“It is not so simple,” Spock murmured, a hand traveling to his abdomen.  “They bonded when they were older.  They did not have  _families_.  And you must realize that in that state, I may not recognize you – I may not recognize our  _children_.”

Jim froze.  “Will there be signs that it’s starting?” he finally asked.  Spock nodded.  “All right.  That’s good.  We can plan for it, then.”

And then there was nothing more to say.  Spock settled back onto the bed, stretching out onto his side as Jim lay back down and looped an arm around his waist. There was so much to do – he still hadn’t informed his father of Sybok’s death.  They needed to inform Starfleet that their assignment had failed and to file an incident report.  There was so much to do that he couldn’t afford to stay in bed all day.

But when Jim pulled him closer, one hand spread protectively over his abdomen, Spock found himself disinclined to move.

How odd.

“You said it’s insanity,” Jim murmured against his shoulder.  Spock nodded.  “I don’t know.  Sybok came back to himself in the end.  I won’t let you lose yourself to begin with.”

And somehow, Spock believed him.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

Some two hours later, there was a buzz at their door.  It really could only have been one person, and Jim called out for the computer to admit him.  Dr. McCoy stepped in, eyes flicking directly to the bed before he walked over.

“Autopsy’s done,” he murmured, pulling a hypo and a scanner from his pocket.  Spock began to sit up, but Jim pressed a firm hand to his shoulder.  It wasn’t enough to really restrain him – Jim knew it wasn’t – but it communicated his message clearly enough.  Spock settled back into the bed.  The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“No need to get up if we don’t have to,” Jim argued.  Spock watched McCoy’s face settle into a resigned expression.  It seemed that was a common occurrence around Jim.  “What’d you find?”

McCoy twisted a dial on his tricorder.  “His synaptic pathways were fried,” he said gruffly.  Of course they were.  He had been in Pon Farr.  “Toxicology on him’s a mess, though, Jim.  Every mind-altering substance on record, I swear.  And a few not on record.  Looks like it was a chemical from a grass native to Uyamirtha IV that did it. But I think it’s not contagious, so you two don’t need to worry.”

Spock felt, rather than heard, Jim’s sigh of relief.  Spock had to admit to feeling much more at ease himself.  McCoy quietly ran the tricorder over him.

“Yup, normal synaptic activity,” he confirmed.  “Absolutely no signs of distress in either fetus, too.  Looks like everything’s going all right, physically.  Are you gonna be all right otherwise?”

 _Emotionally_ , the doctor no doubt meant.  Spock nodded, and McCoy seemed satisfied with that.  “Good,” he murmured.  “I’ll call in Sybok’s death to New Vulcan.  You shouldn’t deal with that kind of stress when your kids are just developing a telepathic awareness, and I don’t trust that psychic bond thing you and Jim have not to let things slip through.  Spock, you’re officially on leave until we leave New Vulcan.”

Spock forced himself not to respond.  He did wish to return to work, but the doctor was right.  His efforts were better served calming himself so that the first telepathic impressions his children would receive would be appropriate.  Jim propped himself up on one elbow.

“I take it he’s cleared for New Vulcan’s atmosphere this time?” he asked.  There was a trace of concern in the bond, but the majority of what he felt from his husband centered more on confidence that he was right.  And indeed, McCoy nodded, holding up the hypospray.  Spock allowed him to administer it, even as Jim grimaced. “Jesus.  All it takes is  _seeing_  you give someone one of those and I get a pain in my neck.”

McCoy snorted.  “Say what you want about them; they’re still better than hypodermic needles.  I got poked by more than a few of those my first year of med school,” he drawled.  “Anyway, that should do it.  You’re good to go down tomorrow.  But for now, get some rest.”

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

This time, their stop at New Vulcan was short and heavy.  There had barely been time to arrange and attend the funeral service for Sybok before they returned to the ship, and barely over a week later, it became evident that the strain was getting to Jim.

Of course, that was also likely due to an unnecessarily difficult negotiation with the leaders of a dilithium-rich planet that had taken nearly thirty-six continuous hours before concluding.  Humans weren’t built for that kind of strain, Spock knew.  Jim certainly wasn’t any exception.  When he had returned to the ship, he’d snarled at anyone who asked him how he was before collapsing in the center of the bed and sleeping twelve hours straight.

He hadn’t been much better since he’d woken up.

For a few long moments, Spock wondered if Sybok’s Pon Farr had somehow been transferred to Jim.  But he knew better.  His husband was merely exhausted, and with Starfleet sending them on enough missions for three ships he was likely to stay that way.

And there was nothing he could do.

Another week passed slowly with little change.  Jim was constantly weary, barely making it through his shifts on four shots of espresso before returning to their quarters to sleep.  His nausea had subsided, but it hardly seemed something to celebrate when it had been replaced with something so disabling.  Spock found himself curling in bed with Jim some days, trying to sooth his mate’s frustration and usually failing spectacularly.

“I don’t need to  _cuddle_  with a personal  _furnace_ , Spock!  Or did you not get the memo that humans  _hate sweating_?!” Jim growled one evening, pushing Spock by the shoulders towards the other end of the bed.  Spock moved himself away quickly, sensing that his mate was not in a mind to calm down if asked.  “Fuck this.  You know, _you’re_ the one who’s pregnant, and yet here I am – nauseous, moody, exhausted.  Am I the only one who thinks this is fucking  _unfair_?!”

Spock edged himself away slightly.  “Jim,” he warned.  His mate threw the covers off, stomping to the center of the room.

“No.  Okay?  No!  Whatever you wanna say, I’m not listening,” he hissed, crossing his arms.  “I didn’t sign up for this, Spock!  I can barely function!  This is all your fucking fault.  I  _know_  it!”

Spock sat up slowly, one hand going to his rounded abdomen.  He knew Jim would never hurt him or their children, but the fear was there regardless.  He tried to sort through his mind, trying to separate his and Jim’s emotions—

_Fear, anger, depression, frustration, anxiety, disgust, pity, confusion, joy—_

Joy?

He felt his brows knit together, Jim’s emotions blanking out into nothing but confusion.  Where had the  _joy_  come from?

_Calm, warm, peaceful, happy, loved, joy, joy, joy, joy, awe, loved, together—_

Suddenly, Jim’s eyes met his, jaw slack.  Together, he and Spock moved to cup Spock’s abdomen, both their eyes dropping to the Vulcan’s stomach as they realized exactly  _who_  these feelings were coming from.

“Holy shit,” Jim whispered.  Spock had to agree.  The barrage didn’t stop there.  It seemed that at some level, the beings inside him had realized they weren’t the only ones experiencing their emotions, and the intensity increased threefold.  There was silence in the room as they took in the foreign sentiments, the awe and happiness of this new awareness of the outside world their children were projecting unto them, as though they wished to share with the world itself the wonder of what they were experiencing for the first time.

When Spock finally looked back to Jim’s face, he noted there were telltale streaks on his cheeks, mouth still open and eyes still locked on the flesh beneath his hands. When at last he met Spock’s eyes again, he swallowed once, taking a deep, shaky breath.

“I take everything I just said back,” he managed, moving one hand to the back of Spock’s neck to pull him into a kiss.  Without breaking it, he whispered, “thank you. Thank you  _so much_.”


	11. Chapter 11

The twins’ development of telepathy brought about a turning point in the pregnancy for both Spock and Jim.  For Jim, it brought about the end of his nausea, mood swings, and exhaustion.  He was positively giddy, always offering favors or seeking out the necessities for his soon-to-come offspring.  Spock’s old quarters had been transformed into a nursery, and Jim (with unsolicited assistance from Nyota) was setting about equipping it with everything an infant could possibly require.

For Spock, it was the first inklings of discomfort in his pelvis.

It was mild to start, though irritating.  Spock would find himself shifting to accommodate the rapidly growing twins and feeling the slightest twinge of pain from his lower back.  Sometimes, he would awaken at night and stretch himself out on his right side before a dull ache in near his left hip would subside.  At times, it seemed there was no reason for the pain, but it was there anyway.

He was placed on bed rest at thirty-four weeks, immediately after which M’Benga was brought on board the ship.  It was difficult to readjust to sleeping without Jim at his side, and there were times when even he couldn’t ignore the steady sounds of the monitor.  And the constant stream of tests exhausted him.

He could not be more ready to return to a semblance of a normal life.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

It started mid-Alpha shift, the pain in his pelvis skyrocketing.  He barely uttered a command to summon a doctor before something snapped in his abdomen.  There was a surge of alarm associated with the sudden break before the implant – resting before high on his stomach – dropped, pressing hard against his bones. 

M’Benga arrived first, just as the alarm from before morphed into absolute panic.  Spock cast his eyes to the doctor, refraining from gritting his teeth just long enough to confirm that yes, he consented to the operation they both knew had to be performed.

And then, as he attempted to block the pain from reaching the twins, he felt the surge of alarm from his mate.

 _Spock?_   Jim’s voice echoed through the bond.  He attempted to acknowledge the call.   _Spock, what’s wrong?  What happened?_

M’Benga thrust his palm against the call button.  “Chapel!  McCoy!  Spock needs to get into surgery  _right now_.  Get everything we’ll need for an emergency C-section.”

Spock tried to sort through the myriad of emotions, sensations, and thoughts surging through him.   _I believe I have gone into labor_ , he managed to inform his mate, unable to keep from attempting to shift his hips.  A dart of pain stabbed through his back, and M’Benga pressed a hand against one of his thighs to hold him still.   _It is worse than I anticipated_.

Jim’s concern was still evident, despite Spock’s attempts to calm him.  Thankfully, the pain was starting to ebb.  The Vulcan glanced towards M’Benga, curious as to what painkiller he had administered – but there were no hyposprays in sight.  Curious.

The door slid open, and Spock didn’t need to look up to know it was McCoy coming through.  He flexed his fingers, brow furrowing at the prickling that rushed through them when he moved them.  It was a symptom of…something.  He couldn’t recall what it was.  But the pain was nearly gone, as it was, and that was a good thing.

The twins were still projecting alarm and stress in remarkably high levels towards Spock, and that was disconcerting.  He attempted to calm them, but like with Jim it was ineffectual.  He was vaguely aware that Jim was attempting to ask him something else, but he couldn’t quite make it out.  McCoy was swearing, eyes locked on his monitor.

Really, he hadn’t known just how exhausting labor was.  Certainly nothing he had read suggested that he would become tired so quickly.  Perhaps he should rest.

He’d barely closed his eyes before someone slapped his face.  He opened them again to find M’Benga standing above him, hand poised to strike him again.  He attempted to raise an eyebrow, but found himself unable to tell whether he had been successful.  To the side, McCoy was filling a hypospray, and Spock opened his mouth to ask what he was going to be administered.  All that escaped was an odd sigh, a half a lungful of breath.  But he didn’t particularly care.

McCoy glanced at the monitor again, cursed once more, and jabbed Spock in the neck with the hypo.  And then, the universe itself turned to black.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

He awoke to the bright lights of sickbay shining overhead, and it took Spock a long moment to adjust to the intensity.  The beeping of the monitor reached his ears, and for a few seconds, he wondered how long he’d been unconscious.  The pain in his pelvis was gone, and his mind was peaceful and warm.

The sound of someone moving beside him alerted him to another presence.  M’Benga.  He turned his head to the doctor, meeting his eyes with some confusion.  When had been the last time he’d seen him?

He tried to block the confusion and slight irritation from the twins—but there was nothing there to block those things from.  A swell of alarm bubbled in his chest, and he glanced down his abdomen, jaw falling open as he took in just how  _flat_  it was.

“Doctor?” he managed.  He wasn’t certain what to ask.  Had he given birth?  Or…?

“Relax, Spock,” M’Benga murmured, scanning over him with a tricorder.  “I’m not surprised you don’t remember; your body released the most bizarre mix of chemicals I’ve ever seen when we got you into surgery.  I’m assuming it was due to the change in the implant.”

Spock reached down to feel his abdomen.  “What of my offspring?” he managed to ask.  M’Benga took a breath.

“They’re all right,” he informed him.  “The implant somehow detached and fell to your pelvis.  A few blood vessels also snapped when it happened, and you started to bleed out.  McCoy and I got you into surgery and delivered the twins before trying to repair the damage.  The good news is that you’ve got two pretty healthy babies waiting to meet you and you’re not dead.  The bad news is that we had to remove the implant.  You’re not getting pregnant again anytime soon.”

Spock closed his eyes, trying to reign in the flood of relief.  “That is acceptable,” he said, seeking out Jim’s mind.  He was blocked.  “How long has it been since they were delivered?”

M’Benga glanced at his PADD.  “Thirteen days,” he replied.  “You lost a lot of blood.  We had to wait for a transfusion before we could pull you out of the coma.”

If he’d been comatose, that would certainly explain Jim’s mental shields.  Spock nodded.  “I would like to meet them.”

M’Benga smiled at him – possibly the first genuine smile he’d seen on the man – before turning to the communication panel beside the bed, keying in Jim’s number. “Captain.  Spock’s awake and anxious to see his kids.  Would you like to do the honors?”

There was a long silence, and then abruptly Jim was stepping through a door to their left.  He walked slowly to the bed, arms wrapped around a blanketed bundle, and the second he reached his husband, he leaned in to press a long kiss against his lips.

“You’re awake!” he exclaimed.  The mental block came down, and Spock found himself bombarded with feelings of  _relief_  and  _joy_  and  _nervousness_.  He took them in for a moment before glancing to the bundle in Jim’s arms.  “Right.  Meet your daughter.”

She was placed in his arms then, squirming slightly, heavier than he anticipated.  Dark hair – well, that was to be expected.  Her eyes were open – also dark.  But they were definitely shaped like Jim’s.  Her tiny face was tired, but she fussed a little in his arms anyway.  When he attempted to shift her a little higher, she let out a tiny cry.

“Temperamental,” he observed.  Jim chuckled.

“Ironic you should say that,” he admitted.  “We’ve been calling her Temperance.  Shortens down nicely to T’Pren.”

Temperance.  It suited her, he supposed, feeling the gentle calm she emanated once she was comfortable.  Jim was quiet next to them, allowing Spock the opportunity to become familiar with his daughter.  It was only fair – Jim had had plenty of opportunity to bond with their children while Spock was unconscious.  The Vulcan ran the backs of his fingers over her face and arms, marveling a little at the perfect being they’d somehow created.

“What have you been calling our son?” he inquired, meeting Jim’s eyes again.  The man smiled widely.

“Saul,” he answered.  “I was originally thinking of calling him Steven, but it just didn’t feel right.  Saul just seemed like the best name.”

Spock considered it for a moment.  “ _Saul_  is Vulcan for ‘shout’ or ‘yell’,” he murmured.  “I suppose it is a strong name.  Acceptable.  May I see him?”

Jim nodded, hitting the buzzer on the wall.  McCoy entered immediately, walking briskly to the bed as the infant in his arms wailed.   _Fitting, indeed_ , Spock couldn’t help but think.  Jim gathered their daughter from his arms as Saul was placed where she had been seconds ago.  Spock laid a hand on the infant’s chest, attempting to soothe him.

Saul recognized him immediately, which thrilled Spock.  The child was immediately quiet, relaxing against him as Spock took him in.  His son had very fine hair, and it appeared to be a light brown color.  He had the same dark eyes as his sister, and his skin was a mottled green from all his screaming.  His sister had been pink.

They were both perfect.  Of this Spock had no doubts.

Jim moved to sit next to him, pressing a light kiss to his temple.  “Did you see this coming when you asked me to marry you?” he asked.  Although he knew it was a joke, Spock found himself shaking his head.  Jim chuckled.  “Me neither.”

As M’Benga and McCoy moved off to the side to give them their privacy, Spock moved to examine one of his son’s tiny hands, blinking as one of his fingers was captured in a surprisingly firm grip.  Spock didn’t pull back, instead glancing to Jim, whose smile could’ve split his face.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nuzzling into Spock’s jaw lightly.  “Yeah.  I know.”

Spock pulled his son a little closer, turning to kiss Jim on the lips again.  In a few hours, he’d probably have guests – Nyota, Lieutenant Scott, and the rest of the bridge crew.  He’d need to call his father and probably Admiral Pike.  He would need to go through the details of his recovery with McCoy and M’Benga again in greater detail.

But for now, he looked over his husband, his son, and his daughter, and they were all in the universe that could possibly matter.  And this time,  _he_  turned to Jim, met his eyes, and, allowing himself a tiny smile, murmured, “thank you.”


End file.
